The Twelve Apostles
by Geogirl
Summary: Twelve stars adorn the wall of heroes, all her responsibility. COMPLETED!
1. Matthew The Tax Collector

The Twelve Apostles 

By GeoGirl

Disclaimer:  I do not own anything of Alias.  I'm just borrowing the characters for a little while in order to play a few games of Pictionary.

Distribution:  Fanfiction.net, SD-1, Cover Me and anyone else who asks.

Rating:  PG for now.  Other chapters will be marked accordingly. 

A/N:  I'm a feedback junkie.  Please support my habit.

"She's here again," one guard said to the other.  Of course they would notice her, a beautiful woman.  She showed up every now and again, there at Langley and stood for hours at the wall.  The wall of stars, the wall of heroes, the wall of lives cut too short.  She would just stand there for hours, never bringing anything, just counting the stars.  Her visits were sporadic, but they had come to rely on her visits.

Each time she looked upon the granite wall with the brass stars the number had increased, by one, by two, by more.  Each time she came she wore black, with a red scarf.

This time when she counted there were twelve.  Twelve that she knew, twelve that were her responsibility.  Twelve.  Twelve months in a year.  Twelve in a dozen.  Twelve signs of the zodiac.  Twelve inches in a foot.  Twelve apostles.  Twelve shiny brass stars, each with a name, each scorching her mind.

  


**Matthew – The Tax Collector**

The syncopated clip clop of his daughter bounding down the stairs brought David Farrington's head out of the morning newspaper.  He looked up just in time to see the whirlwind of red ringlets in a Holly Hobby nightgown bounce off the final step and turn the corner into the kitchen.

"Morning Princess."  

"Morning Daddy."  He was rewarded with a hug and a kiss as she snatched a piece of toast from his plate.  She greeted her mother with the same enthusiastic hug and buttery kiss.  Karen plopped into an empty chair at the kitchen table and her mother placed a bowl of cereal in front of her.  Mary Ellen proceeded to the laundry room, just off the kitchen, and retrieved a freshly ironed white button-down shirt and tie, which she passed to her husband.  He stood, took the hanger from her, and leaned over to give gave his wife a kiss on the cheek.

"Daddy, are you coming home early today?  Remember, it's my birthday party after school," the young girl asked between heaping spoonfuls of cereal.

"Yes, Karen honey.  I told my boss that I had to leave early today because my little girl turns 10 today and I cannot miss her birthday." He winked at his two favorite girls.  In the background a baby started to cry and the mother headed toward the stairs to check on the baby.

"You'd better get upstairs young lady and get ready for school.  Give your old dad a kiss and I'll see you tonight."  He was rewarded with a milky kiss and a hug.  He gave her a tickle on her side and she backed up quickly, giggling.  

"Karen," her mother called from the second floor.

"Bye Daddy, have a good day at work."  She ran up the stairs and waved to her father.

He finished buttoning his shirt and tied his tie looking into the mirror in the hall.  He went back into the kitchen to retrieve a piece of toast and a cup of coffee before he put on his suit coat.  He found his keys; toast hanging from his mouth and his wife came down the steps holding the baby.

"Have a good day at work today, honey.  Don't let the number crunching get to you today."  His wife handed him a briefcase and kissed him on the cheek.  She walked him to the door; baby propped on her hip and watched as his car pulled out of the driveway.

David Farrington drove the 15 or so miles to his job in Washington D.C.  He was excited to get to work this particular morning because a new clue had come to him in a dream.  His wife thought he was an accountant with the State Department.  But he really was a code breaker for the CIA and he was currently attempting to break the code that would allow the CIA to tap into Russian spy satellites.   They were very close and David hoped that this new inspiration would prove to be the key. 

The drive was typical, with backups in all the normal places.  He pulled into the parking garage and greeted the security guard.  His ID was checked and he pulled through the gate and up to his assigned parking space on the third level.  What he failed to notice right away was the lady in black on the ramp, walking towards him.

He looked up and noticed the woman with a smile on her face.

"Good morning" were his last words as she quickly pulled a gun and shot him in the chest.  As he dropped to the ground, she vanished.  

His last thoughts were of the unwrapped birthday gift in the truck of his car that he wouldn't be able to give to Karen.


	2. John Transmogrifying

John - Transmogrifying  
  
(Rated PG-13)  
  
The bar wasn't that crowded when he arrived. But now the music was thumping and he could scarcely see across the room, let alone to the end of the bar. He had come here to find himself again. Who knew that 9 months undercover would make him lose himself so much?  
  
To look at him, one would never guess him to be a spy. He was too young looking; people usually guessed him to be in his early 20's. It was all the product of good genes that he was almost 31 and still could pass as a college student. He was very good looking, had dark wavy hair with the most startling blue eyes, which helped him pick up just about any girl he wanted.  
  
Tonight he wasn't planning on finding company; he was finding himself. He wanted to remember how good American beer tasted. He wanted a greasy hamburger with all of the fixings and a plate of French fries with ketchup. He wanted to smoke a pack of Camels and eat with his forked turned up. He wanted to be American.  
  
He'd had plenty of ice-cold vodka and Turkish cigarettes. He'd had too much heavy dark bread and borscht. He'd had enough of diesel fumes, snow, and bitter cold to last him a lifetime.  
  
Nine months posing as a grad student in Russia had taken a toll on Carl Hemphell. He was completely ready to shed to skin of Maxim Vatolosk, physics student at the University of Moscow, studying fusion theory under the famed Professor Milenkev. He didn't want to be Carl the Spy, smuggling scientific advancements out of Russia for the benefit of the CIA. He wanted to be Carl tonight, just Carl from St. Paul, with an older brother Tom and two younger sisters, Mandy and Amelia.  
  
So he had come here, to the Plantation in Richmond, VA, after his debriefing, to find himself. He had his thick cheeseburger and platter of fries, and it had tasted wonderful. He was on his third or fourth beer, cold and golden and foamy, and it was better than he remembered. The music was seeping into his skin and he was amazed that he understood the lyrics without translation. His mastery of the Russian language was impressive, especially for the short time he had studied it, but he found that he had the most trouble when listening to music. The words just didn't make sense and went by too quickly for him to understand them in Russian.  
  
He appreciated the scenery around him, everyone in jeans, dancing and having a good time. It was so comfortable and normal and he relished it. And he planned on sitting on the bar stool all night.  
  
Then she walked in.  
  
And every male in the place took notice. She exuded confidence and sex and looked the part, strawberry blonde hair that almost reached her waist, a denim skirt that was barely legal, legs that reached to heaven. She walked like a model, a defined sway of the hips, shoulders back and her black shirt unbuttoned low enough to see hints of her fire engine red bra. She strode up to the bar, grabbed his pack of Camels, took one and the light he offered and headed straight into the middle of the dance floor. Only then did Carl realize that she had arrived by herself.  
  
He tried to avoid looking at her, but she seemed to be dancing for just him, despite the number of potential partners that flocked around her. She maintained eye contact and smiled a small, knowing smile.  
  
He gulped down his beer and signaled for another as she danced. His jeans were becoming tighter just watching her.  
  
He turned away and proceeded to smoke three cigarettes in a row, between gulps of beer. He got up to use the men's room, leaving a half finished beer and his cigarettes in his spot, hoping that was enough to signal that the stool was taken. The bartender, Jake, gave a nod that he would keep the seat open for him.  
  
He wove back through the crowd toward the bar, only to find his stool occupied by her.  
  
"I was keeping your seat warm for you," she drawled. Her southern accent was not deep but just added to her sexiness. She started to get up from the stool, but he motioned her to stay. The guy to the right got up and headed for the dance floor and Carl took his stool instead.  
  
"Thank you," he paused hoping she would fill in her name.  
  
"Catherine, but you can call me Catie," she offered as she took another of his cigarettes.  
  
"Can I get you a drink?" he asked.  
  
"Whiskey, with a beer chaser."  
  
"You got it." He motioned Jake over and placed an order for both of them. The drinks arrived and he lifted his whiskey in salute, clinked her glass and watched in amazement as she downed the shot in one swallow. She didn't even shudder as most girls would, or immediately reach for the beer.  
  
"My name is Carl," he offered as he lit another cigarette for her.  
  
"You're not from around here," Catie stated, "You sound like a Yankee."  
  
"I am. Born and raised in St. Paul, Minnesota."  
  
"What are you doing in Richmond?"  
  
"Here on business." He finished his beer and signaled for another. Then he felt her hand on his and she leaned over and commanded, "Dance with me."  
  
The music had slowed and she pulled him to the dance floor. She draped herself on him like a new shirt, and they stood on the floor, barely moving. Carl had never been more turned on. He leaned in to kiss her and was met ferociously. She tasted of sin, like cigarettes, whiskey, and beer, and her lips devoured his as he pulled her closer with a groan. She moved against him like a cat and matched his passion. They finally realized that the slow song had ended after being bounced about by dancers moving to the new beat.  
  
They moved back to the bar and he ordered up another couple of beers. She excused herself to the ladies room and he couldn't help but watch as she swayed toward the restroom. He hoped that she would return and not skip out.  
  
She did return and they managed to carry on a conversation for another hour or so until last call. By the time the bar closed they could barely keep their hands off of one another, and she suggested they return to her apartment, which was close by.  
  
He agreed, hazy with beer and sex. She led him up to her third floor apartment. They were barely inside the door when they attacked each other again. Clothes were removed as they headed to the bedroom. She excused herself to the bathroom; he figured she was going to get birth control. He pulled a condom out of his wallet and proceeded to finish getting undressed. Catie immerged from the bathroom wearing only her red bra and matching panties.  
  
She moved to the bed and straddled his lap, pushing him against the headboard. She leaned in and kissed him deeply.  
  
The police found him three days later, propped up against the headboard with a bullet wound to the temple. 


	3. Andrew and James Fishers of Men

**The First Visit**

She's not quite sure why she's standing here in the first place.  She doesn't remember the drive, parking or coming in with the tour group.  All she knows is that she's been standing there for a while, if the guard's demeanor is any indication.  

They had discretely motioned her over to the guest book a while back and she stared at the blank line trying to figure out an appropriate alias.  She couldn't sign her real name; she couldn't sign her American name.  So she ended up signing the name Catie Richmond.  It seemed appropriate, because that is why she was here.  Wrapped in black wool, a sign of sadness, with a splash of red to remind her of the mission.  

He had been too young, like her; but not nearly as jaded.  He was doing what he thought best for his country, as she was.  Did the ends justify the means? Is one country more superior to another?  That question alone would have her spending months -- or years -- in Siberia.  

Why was she here, really?  To make sure that she had been successful in her assignments?  Yes.  Guilt?  No.  Shame? No.  Remorse? Maybe.  Regret? Maybe.  Or just to honor another patriot?  Maybe.  There might not really be a reason.

Now she knew two names upon the wall.  She knew their lives and knew their deaths.  She knew the look on their faces when she took their futures, all for the good of her country.  And a tear rolled down her cheek.

**Andrew and James  - Fishers of Men**

Their contact was late and they were beginning to become impatient.  It was supposed to be routine; meet with the Russians, buy the weapons they offered, signal backup and take the Russians into custody.  One more illegal weapons ring taken out.  Johnson and Boudreaux had planned for everything, as their reputations acknowledged.  Johnson glanced at his watch once more and began to pace between the rows of crates.  

"Phil, get in the game," a harsh whisper from his partner.  Boudreaux knew that Phil always paced when he got anxious and he loved to bust his chops about it.  They had been working together as partners for eight years now and could read each other well.

"Bite me Oz," was his reply.  Chuckles lilted through their earpieces and Oz took the opportunity to check in with surveillance.  

"Red, any signs of them?"

"Negative, sir."

"Blue?"

"None sir."

"Sky-eye, any signs of approaching vehicles?"

"All clear sir.  Just normal traffic patterns."

"Keep an eye out all of you. I'm getting a feeling about this one."  Phil knew to trust his feelings and so did the rest of the team. 

Phil glanced over at the briefcase full of money.  He'd been doing this job for what seemed like eons, but the thought of such sums of money sitting in a briefcase on the floor next to Oz still made him nervous.  He had seen what some people would do for money and it gave him nightmares.  He took a moment to take a sweeping inventory of the warehouse.  Light filtered in through the high windows, putting the rafters in shadows.  He knew that Mac and Deb were on the roof of the building next door, eyes trained on the western windows; Ramsey and Wilson were watching the southern windows.  He knew there was no egress on the east, only a shared wall with the warehouse on that side.  The only entrance for the Russians was to the north and here, he and Oz were waiting.

The tip they had gotten from their source was that Zaranoysti was eager to unload these weapons, as he was looking to retire to his nice dacha on the Black Sea.  Their meeting with Zaranoysti's right hand man had gone relatively smoothly and with the right amount of haggling, a price had been settled on.   So, the trade was set to everyone's satisfaction for today.

The Russians were 20 minutes late and that made both Phil and Oz nervous.

"Did I tell you that Bobby finally passed his drivers' test?"

"Really, how many tries did it take him, Oz?  Cuz if he drives like you, I'm surprised that they passed him."

"He had to take the driving portion a second time; the kid just won't quit rolling through stop signs.  So Nancy started to tease him that if he couldn't pass, then he'd have to have his mom drive Tam and him to the prom."

"Well, thank God Max still has 4 years before he starts driving, I don't think my nerves are ready.  So when are you going to introduce Bobby to the Dupont Circle?"

"Not till he's 25.  I even hate driving the circle."

"Show me one person who does and I'll show you someone that belongs in the nuthouse."

"Don't you know it," and Oz checked his watch again.

Oz began mentally reviewing the plan in his mind and wondered if there was something they overlooked. He tried to remember everything about the meetings with the Russians, determined to uncover any duplicity.  Oz was the analytical one; Phil had the gut feelings; that is why they had always worked so well together. He absently patted his shoulder holster, making sure his piece was still there and his hand reached up and tapped his earpiece.

Phil's pace began to speed up and Oz decided it was officially time to start worrying. He checked in with all the teams and knew it was time to consider that the transaction would not be taking place.  For some reason, the Russians had stood them up.

Forty minutes after the proposed meet time, Oz officially called off the sting.  

***

Her legs had gone numb about an hour ago and still, she waited.  She knew that the Russians wouldn't be coming.  Their organization was currently in disarray.  Yesterday, Zaranoysti was assassinated in his home and no suspects had been found. 

She had been waiting in the HVAC unit in the northeast corner of the building.  The shadows obstructed the CIA's view of her hideout but she had a perfect view of the two agents.  She watched them as they paced and followed protocol, checking in with the snipers on the roof next door. And she waited until the perfect time.

***

"OK, everyone, we're packing it up.  It looks as though the Russians are a no show." Oz gave one last look around and walked over to pick up the briefcase. 

"Understood.  Blue team standing down."

"Red standing down."

"Keep your guard up everyone.  We don't know if we're under any type of surveillance," added Phil.  "Sky-eye, keep a lock on everyone until they are at least one mile from here.  Keep circling as needed."

"We've got a lock on all personnel.  Proceed."

"Let's go home everyone.  See you back at the ranch."  Oz felt a sense of relief as he gathered the briefcase and headed for the door.  He heard Phil's footsteps behind him and he gave a small chuckle; Phil always hated being the last one out of a building.  Then the footsteps suddenly stopped and he heard a small moan followed by a thud.

"Having trouble walking there partner?" he quipped as he turned around to see Phil sprawled on the floor.

He felt a sting in his chest and time seemed to slow as he fell to the ground.  

"Agent down," he gasped, as the briefcase slipped from his hand.

***

Khasinau let himself into her hotel room and walked into the steamy bathroom.  Irina was barely visible in the steam rising from the tub.

He roughly grabbed her chin and pulled her forward with a swift jerk.

"Zaranoysti's murder was not sanctioned.  Do not take things into your own hands again.  You will not like the consequences."

He pushed her back and water sloshed over the side of the tub getting him wet and giving her a face full of water.  She spat it out and sank further into the warm water.


	4. Thomas Put Your Hand In My Side

Thomas - Place Your Hand In My Side  
  
She sat at her dressing table and stared into the mirror, searching; looking deep into the glass and trying to predict the future.  
  
She loved him, of that she was certain, and she believed he loved her. He treated her more kindly than any other man in her life. He opened doors for her. He brought her gifts for no occasion. He rarely raised his voice to her and he has yet to raise his hand to her. Like her ex.  
  
No, she was certain that he could love her, or maybe he already did.  
  
She shook herself out of her reverie and continued setting her hair for her date. Tonight Sergi was taking her to the yacht for a long weekend at sea. Her half-packed bags were on her bed and piles of clothes were strewn about the room, she was having difficulty deciding what to pack.  
  
But soon enough, her bags were sitting by the front door and she sat at the window waiting for the car.  
  
As soon as the door opened, she was enveloped in a huge hug and a warm, soft kiss landed on her lips.  
  
"My darling Eleanor, come, our weekend awaits."  
  
"Ah, Sergi, you spoil me."  
  
"As well as you should be."  
  
Within minutes, they were ensconced in the back of Sergi's diplomatic limousine, her bags in the trunk, on the way to the marina.  
  
***  
  
He liked her, of that he was certain; which made her mission less complicated. She had never been with a man so attentive and kind. He opened doors for her; he listened to her thoughts, no matter how strange. He was intelligent and loved to debate with her without getting angry, or upset with her if she disagreed. Jack was always a gentleman and she had not expected to find him attractive. The picture she had been show did not do him justice.  
  
And she was beginning to think of him as more than a mission. She resisted liking him for a long time, but she found herself looking forward to their next meeting.  
  
*** Meeting Sergi was a complete fluke, she told herself. David Chamberlain had invited her to an Embassy party when his girlfriend was sent out of town for her job. Dave was a great boss at the State Department, and she jumped at the chance to hobnob with the wealthy and important. Dave's girlfriend even lent her a dress for the occasion.  
  
The party was more than Eleanor had expected; she was completely out of her element and loved it. This farm girl from Missouri had never even been to a formal dance before, and now she was dancing with foreign dignitaries. She felt like Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty and every other fairy tale princess in her sequined blue dress and sparkling fake jewels. She danced every dance and ate fine, gourmet food, most of which she didn't recognize, and drank champagne as if it were water. It was a magical night.  
  
She had noticed Sergi watching her during the night and he eventually asked her to dance. He was not the most handsome man in the place and probably 10 years her senior, but instantly she felt as though she knew him. He made her laugh and she danced the rest of the night with him. He told her that he was a clerk at the Russian Embassy; this made her uneasy at first because he was "the enemy". But as the night wore on, she thought less of that and more about him. He asked for her phone number at the evening's end and she did not hesitate to give it to him.  
  
***  
  
She was ordered to become part of his life and if truth be told, it wasn't that hard. He liked her, she loved the attention and he treated her like a queen. Not bad for a daughter of a Leningrad policeman and a seamstress.  
  
Her father had never shown any of them much affection; so at first she thought that Jack's emotions made him weak, vulnerable. She would scoff at him and ridicule him in her mind and to her superior, Khasinau. They would openly question his masculinity. However, the first time he kissed her she was astonished by that emotion and wondered if she had been completely wrong about this man.  
  
And she wondered when he would kiss her again.  
  
***  
  
Sergi called her within days, and called her often. She began to recognize the ring on the phone when he called and soon every time the phone rang, she hoped it was him. He sent her flowers at work and took her for nice dinners. He even took her to her first opera.  
  
After she had been seeing Sergi for several months, Dave called her into his office with a meeting with Mr. Townsend of the CIA. She thought she was asked into the meeting to take notes, as any good assistant would do; but little did she know.  
  
"Ms. Mercalli, I understand that you have begun seeing someone from the Russian Embassy on a personal level. Is my information correct?" Mr. Townsend was a balding, middle-aged man with a very dour face; and he made her completely nervous.  
  
"Yes, Sergi Bakul. He's a clerk at the Embassy." She tried to meet his eyes, but they were trained on the file he was holding. She wondered about what information that folder held.  
  
"How did you meet him?" he asked without raising his head.  
  
"At the Polish Embassy party two months ago." Mr. Townsend checked off something in the file. "I went with Mr. Chamberlain here as a substitute date because his girlfriend was out of town. Sergi asked me to dance and he made me laugh. Is something wrong?" She was getting a bad feeling about this whole conversation.  
  
"Would it surprise you, Ms. Mercalli, if I told you that Sergi was not a clerk at the Embassy?" he asked, this time staring intently into her face. She wished at that point he were looking at the file because her jaw was hanging open with shock.  
  
"No, yes, I mean why would he lie to me? What does he do?" She could feel herself getting red and her eyes moistened. She shifted nervously in her seat and looked to Dave for some reassurance. He looked a bit taken back himself and simply shrugged.  
  
"Sergi Bakul is a known KGB operative. What he's doing in the US and with you we've yet to determine. But we'd like your help. Your Country needs your help Ms. Mercalli. Will you help us?"  
  
"I'm not with the CIA. I'm just an executive assistant with the State Department. What could I do, I have no training?" She was really doubtful that there was anything she could do that would help. Besides, Sergi was nice to her, he liked her and she liked him. He had never asked her to do anything against her country. She was sure that he never would, she knew him and knew that he was falling in love with her. And if she were to admit it, she was falling in love with him too.  
  
"Well, Ms. Mercalli, we'd like to give you a little bit of training first, then we'll get into the specifics. I've arranged for you to come to our facility starting tomorrow, for about a week. Are you up for this?" Mr. Townsend perked up when he started talking about training. David nodded with his consent.  
  
"What kind of training would I be doing? I refuse to use, or carry a gun." She leaned forward and tried to look intimidating to prove her point. She failed miserably.  
  
"We will not be training you for the use of firearms, ma'am; nothing like that. You'll just learn to cover your tracks, to look for evidence against the United States, nothing difficult. In fact, you'll probably enjoy it."  
  
"But what about Sergi? I can't hurt him, he's treated me so well and I like him." Mr. Townsend again looked at her, and through her, and slowly shook his head.  
  
"We're not asking you to hurt him, just watch and listen. We have no plans to prosecute Sergi for anything. We're just providing a counterbalance. Again, we're just asking you to watch and listen, that's all." He was standing now and looked very convincing. Eleanor had doubts, but she would listen.  
  
So they trained her to watch and remember and to take pictures of documents without detection. They promised her that Sergi wouldn't be hurt, wouldn't even find out and she would help the United States and be a patriot.  
  
***  
  
She looked at the information that Khasinau had given her and didn't understand. This was a threat to Russia, this mousy little girl? She almost dared to question this one and Khasinau read it in her eyes. She paid with a backhand to her cheek. He explained that this mousy little girl was compromising one of KGB's best. The operative was becoming soft because of his feelings for this girl. This would not be tolerated.  
  
***  
  
The yacht was not his, he explained, he just borrowed it from a friend for the weekend, just for her, just for them. They were to sail out first thing in the morning up the coast, after spending the night moored at the marina  
  
He had a simple, yet elegant, dinner waiting for them under the stars. For desert he fed her strawberries and cream. When he touched her, she forgot everything, including her name, only wanting to be in his arms forever. They made love in the stateroom to the ebb and flow of the tide; the salty smell of the sea blowing in through the open porthole.  
  
The pale light of dawn streamed through the windows and they woke to a woman in black pointing a gun at them.  
  
"Why are you doing this?" he asked. When the woman would not answer, he asked again in Russian.  
  
"Because you are weak, she makes you weak, and Russia does not need weakness," she returned.  
  
"Sergi, what is going on?" Eleanor asked, huddling close to him, trembling with fear.  
  
"It's ok, sweetie. It's just a little business." He tried to calm her but his eyes betrayed his concern. He sat up against the headboard, moving his right hand slowly under his pillow, hoping to avoid detection.  
  
"She has betrayed you. Because of her, secrets have been given to the enemy and you were too blind to see. Put your hands where I can see them, Sergi," Irina commanded in her native tongue.  
  
Sergi raised his hand and pulled the trigger at the same time. Irina's shoulder jerked back and she fired. Sergi looked down to see a red blossom appear on the white sheet next to him, and in slow motion he turned, and saw Eleanor slumped against his arm. He yelled in horror and turned back to Irina as she pulled the trigger once more. The force of the bullet knocked him back and then forward, slumping over on top of Eleanor's still body.  
  
Her shoulder throbbed, warm stickiness traced down her arm. She knew Khasinau would not be happy that Sergi was dead, but it was self-defense. She reacted as she had been taught; if she had not fired, she would be very still in that chair at the end of the bed.  
  
She made her way back to the hotel to check in and get medical attention.  
  
***  
  
When he saw her he pulled her into his arms, enveloping her in warmth. The pain lessened as he kissed the bruise on her cheek. She felt. And it made her feel amazingly strong. 


	5. Jude Thaddeus Desparate Causes

Jude Thaddeus - Desperate Causes  
  
Paul Browning walked in the backdoor, wiping the dirt off his hands with a rag. He grabbed a glass out of the cupboard and filled it with cold water from the tap. As he took a long deep drink, the telephone rang. He reluctantly went over and answered the call. Once it was over, he made a quick phone call and headed back outside, grabbing his half filled glass on the way.  
  
His girlfriend Debbie was pulling weeds from the vegetable garden and Paul handed her the glass of water. He rubbed her back as she finished the last of the water.  
  
"What's up? You've got that look," she asked, handing the glass back and pushing her sunglasses up onto the top of her head.  
  
"There was a call from work." Debbie rolled her eyes and shook her head. "Patrick's wife went into labor a month early and they need me to take his place at the demo in Cleveland. I need to leave first thing tomorrow."  
  
"Tomorrow is Sunday and your nephew's baseball game. Alisha will be so upset that you're missing his game."  
  
"I know, but I need to get to Cleveland to meet up with the rest of the team to rehearse. We do the product demo first thing Monday morning and I really haven't been involved with this project since the design phase. So, I really need the afternoon to get up to date on everything."  
  
Debbie pulled down her shades and went back to pulling weeds. She had this conversation too often and she wasn't in the mood to argue today. And luckily Paul didn't push the issue. Though they had only been living together for just over a year, they had been together for five years and both knew when to let the subject lie for a while.  
  
Paul headed back into the house, calling back that he was going to call Alisha and let her know the reason he would be missing Cassius' big game. He mentally prepared himself for her reaction; Alisha was more unforgiving than Debbie.  
  
***  
  
Paul checked into the hotel in Luanda and waited in his room until he was contacted. The air was sticky and oppressive and he really wished that he were in Cleveland instead of Angola. He pulled out the op-tech that Bernie and Al had put together and confirmed that everything was in working order. He unrolled the plans for the building that were concealed in shaving cream can and began to review them. The proposed entrance and egress were unguarded for several minutes during each shift change. He was to get into the building, access the safe in the CEO's office and retrieve the documents that would verify the Cuban's participation in the funding and training of the Movement for the Liberation of Angola's army.  
  
Nearing dusk, Paul's nap was interrupted by a phone call. He picked up the receiver and was assaulted by a flurry of Portuguese.  
  
"I will be in a taxi in front of the hotel in 25 minutes. The taxi number is 237 and I will be wearing a white cap. I will wait for 5 minutes only and then will leave. I will not initiate contact again." And the receiver went dead.  
  
Paul dressed in his standard black outfit, but threw a beige blazer on over the ensemble so it did not scream "cat burglar" too loudly. The contacts ride was a rickety rust heap by it matched most of the other taxis on the road. But Tariq was a trusted contact that Paul had dealt with before. Paul got into the back seat of the taxi and Tariq drove silently to the area around the shipping headquarters north of the city in the major port.  
  
"The building next door was owned by a man who thought that the government shipping company was making too much profit. In order to make a larger profit for himself he decided to take advantage of the shared wall between his building and the government's. When he put in the new ventilation system years ago, he had the contractors tie into the government building's system, by making a small hole in the wall and connecting the duct work." Tariq let out a small sound that conveyed his appreciation of the effort.  
  
"When the government found out that they were cooling his building as well as theirs, he was tried and executed for treason against the government. The government sold both buildings, but never disconnected the two systems. I doubt the current owners know," Tariq added nonchalantly.  
  
He parked the car on the south side of the neighboring building, in an alley, using a dumpster to partially shield the taxi from sight.  
  
"The shift changes at 11:00, so you need to make your way into the building at precisely 11:00. The office is on the second floor. You will have 30 minutes to get in and retrieve the documents. I will return here at 11:30 and wait only 5 minutes and then I will leave. Until then, I will drive around the buildings to monitor for unusual activity. I will signal you if I notice anything suspicious." Paul nodded his head, testing the two way communication device and set his watch to match Tariq's.  
  
Paul had never known Tariq to be so chatty before a mission, but welcomed the distraction this time. Paul was becoming uneasy with the relative ease of the situation. He had learned with many years of experience that when missions seem too easy, something would invariably go wrong. And this thought made him uncharacteristically quiet.  
  
"See you in 30 minutes my friend" he offered as he slipped out of the car and into the shadows. Tariq answered with a tip of his cap.  
  
Paul easily picked the lock of the shipping door and slipped inside. Following his instincts and his memory of the building layout, he proceeded to the room containing the access point for the ventilation system.  
  
"I am so sick of crawling around in ventilation shafts. I really need to get the good gigs like Bond," he muttered to himself as he pulled the gate back on to the ductwork. He turned on his flashlight, put it in his mouth and pulled the map of the ventilation system out of his breast pocket and reviewed the path to the neighboring building. Once he established the direction, he turned off the light and began the long crawl. He hummed to himself songs to keep himself moving at a good clip and noticed a slight change in the duct diameter, signaling his arrival at the other building.  
  
In a blind corner, he again took out the flashlight and map and confirmed his direction and the time. He had about 15 minutes to get upstairs and break into the safe. At the next opening, Paul crawled out of the ducts and lowered himself into a bathroom. He briefly listened at the door, opened the door a small crack and stuck his pen out the door. He looked into the lens at the end of the pen, which showed him the view of the hall in both directions. It was clear and he let himself out of the bathroom and headed right to the stairwell.  
  
He quickly bounded up the stairs taking them two or three at a time and reached the second floor without detection. Using Bernie's pen again, the hallway proved to be clear and Paul slunk down the hallway hugging the wall. He got into the office using his favorite lock pick and found the safe with relative ease.  
  
The wall safe was an easy crack and as he lifted the envelope out of the safe, he heard the door of the office click shut.  
  
"Well, thank you for all your work; it makes my job less difficult." Paul turned around to see his favorite nemesis pointing a gun at him.  
  
"Ah, darling, always late to the party" he quipped.  
  
"No Paul, I would say I'm just in time. Place the envelope on the desk and leave your hands on the desk where I can see them."  
  
"Might I say, you are looking lovely, even more so than usual. You almost glow. How's the love life?" He didn't know her name but they had this unusual banter and animosity between them. She always gave him a run for the money and he always did like a challenge. He placed the envelope down on the desktop and slowly placed his hands, palms down, on either side of the envelope. He gingerly flexed his elbow enough to feel the tip of the concealed blade poke his right wrist.  
  
With the gun pointed directly at Paul's head, Irina cautiously moved closer to the desk and calculated the best way to get the envelope and disable the man at the same time. Her orders were to retrieve the documents for the Soviet government, who was curious about Cuba's unsanctioned involvement with the resistance movement. She was also under strict orders not to kill anyone, unless it was truly necessary. The fiasco with Sergi had left her under suspicion and constant surveillance. She marveled at the fact that the Russian surveillance team had eluded the suspicion on Jack thus far. It was only a matter of time until he noticed.  
  
She mentally chastised herself for thinking of Jack at this critical moment; even brief thoughts of him set her mind reeling and distracted. Just as she picked up the envelope, Paul grabbed her wrist, cutting it shallowly. She quickly retaliated with a blow to his head with the butt of the gun. He fell back, releasing her wrist, but recovered quickly.  
  
His foot flew out from beneath the desk and hooked her feet, causing her to fall backward and drop the gun. She rolled to the right, thinking he would come around the desk from the left and searched for the gun and shoved the envelope into her waistband.  
  
She felt his arm curl around her neck from behind and instinctively elbowed backward. She caught him in the groin and he released her. She crawled under the desk and he grabbed furiously at her feet. She grabbed the wayward gun and came up, gun first. He again was behind her and she swung around, his fist hitting her forearm. He grabbed her arm as she squeezed off a shot into the ceiling and the two fell and rolled on the ground. She felt a sharp stab in her lower abdomen and realizing she still held the gun, pulled the trigger again. He gave her a weak forearm to chin and slumped away with a surprised look on his face. He hand clutched at his chest and he crumpled to a motionless mass on the floor.  
  
Irina sat there a moment, staring and getting her breathing under control. Her fingers gingerly probed a deep gash in her abdomen and winced at the sharp stinging pain. This would require stitches. She heard footsteps coming up the hall and gathered herself and went out the window and repelled down to the ground, using the same apparatus she used to get into the building. Lights were popping on in the building and she heard the faint cries of guard dogs coming her way. She kept to the shadows and progressed quickly down the street. She slipped into an alley full of homeless people and settled in with them until the sirens passed.  
  
After about an hour, she made her way, holding her throbbing side, to the waiting transport. Khasinau was waiting for her and glared at her.  
  
"What took you so long? I heard the sirens" he seethed as he grabbed the envelop from her hand.  
  
"A CIA operative was there when I arrived. We fought and he's dead," she hissed through clenched teeth. She lifted her shirt to inspect the wound. This would definitely require stitches. She moaned as the adrenaline started to wear off.  
  
Khasinau looked over and hitched his shoulders. "We'll get you some medical attention back at the op center."  
  
"How will I explain this to Jack? I had a hard enough time convincing him that the graze from the bullet last time was the result of an accident with an easel at my presentation at the conference." She slumped into the seat as the car made its way through the city.  
  
"I believe that is in the same general vicinity of a scar from the removal of your appendix. Emergency appendectomy while Jack was out of town. I suspect that will be sufficient and garner you flowers" Khasinau replied callously.  
  
"You're so thoughtful, Alex" she replied hoping he read the sarcasm loud and clear. 


	6. Phillip Crosses We All Bear

Souvenir 

It seemed fitting that she pay tribute to the past, just before venturing into her future.  She wanted to pay tribute to those whose future she took away.

Six stars she counted on the wall, six that she knew all too well.  Each star gleamed and sparkled in the light, unlike their lost lives, which were now snuffed out.  Rainbows of colors flitted across the brass stars, light catching the prism of her diamond ring.  In one month she would marry Jack, as her superiors had planned and she had wished.  

She stood in front of the stars in her black suit, remembering those that had crossed her path.  She hoped for understanding because forgiveness could never be asked for or received.  She dipped her head as a salute and turned away.  

Phillip – Crosses We All Bear 

"Since when are you volunteering for courier work, Garcia?"  

"Since your lazy ass decided to get a promotion and ride a desk Masterson.  You decided to become Management and left the real work to us lower level schmucks." Sal Garcia clapped his friend on the back and headed off to the armory to get his weapon.  

Sal had volunteered for this courier job looking for a change of pace from his work in Encryption.  He had retired from the field five years ago after loosing his partner.  However, Sal was looking for one last thrill before he proposed to his girlfriend and the adrenaline rush from a courier job suited him better than a party or one last fling any day.  Patsy shouldn't need to worry about him as he'd only be gone a couple of days; it was just a quick trip to Spain.

He didn't know what was in the package and he had learned years ago to not be curious.  Curiosity killed the cat, indeed.  He knew where to make his first contact and from there he would be directed to the place for the delivery.  Anyways, he had always loved Spain and he hoped that he would have time to pick up a few choice presents for Patsy.  He had one particular store in Granada to visit; they had excellent handcrafted jewelry and Patsy loved bracelets.

"You are to fly TWA Fight 473 from Atlanta to Barcelona, where you will check into the Duquesa De Carbona Hotel.  When you check in and arrange for a rental car through the concierge.  He will reserve you a car and in the rental agreement there will be instructions on where to meet your first contact," Assistant Director Milford reviewed as Sal checked his weapon and signed out the piece.

The Assistant Director continued to walk with him as he proceeded to Encryption to pick up the package, "We know that the final rendezvous will be in Granada at the Catedral de Granada, but we do not know when or with whom.  You contact will initiate the exchange by stating, "Have you seen the Chapel yet?" and you will answer, "No, I was planning on going there next."  The final confirmation will be when the contact replies "Be sure to stop by the gift shop, they have many beautiful postcards."  You will then make the exchange, head to the gift shop, buy two postcards and then leave.  Until you buy the postcards, the courier will not leave, believing the exchange was compromised."

"So, I should remember to pick up the postcards, right." Sal laughed halfheartedly, trying to get Milford to lighten up.  The Assistant Director was known for his lack of humor and Sal loved to get on his nerve.  

Sal made a quick trip home to pack a bag.  He called Pine Elementary and left a note with the secretary for Patsy.  "Mrs. Mendez, please leave a message for Patsy saying that I have to catch a flight out to Houston in one hour to personally deliver the proposal for drilling rights off the coast of Alabama.  Yes, it's the one we've been working on for months.  I should be back in two days, provided they don't ask me to give a verbal presentation more than once." 

"Yes, Ms. Mendez, tell Patsy not to worry, I will definitely be back for the school play on Friday.  Tell her I'll call her tonight."

He hung up the phone, grabbed his suitcase and his briefcase and headed out for the 45-minute drive to the airport.  He made it to the airport for the trans-Atlantic flight and checked his suitcase at the gate.  The documents to be delivered were in the breast pocket of his suit, with his briefcase as the decoy.  Sal was glad that he remembered to grab the book from the nightstand before he left because he always had trouble sleeping on a plane, especially during courier work.  He tended to have nightmares of all the potential problems if he did manage to sleep.  And rather then have nightmares, he'd rather get totally absorbed in the latest bestseller.

Sal settled in for the long flight, every once in a while checking to see if he recognized anyone on the plane or noticed if anyone in particular was keeping him under surveillance.  As he had been taught, he laid low, only getting up once or twice to go to the bathroom, each time locking his briefcase and booby-trapping it with a piece of tape or bit of hair to indicate if it had been tampered with.  No precaution was too great in times like these.

***

Irina periodically checked on the courier, careful to not arouse suspicion.  Khasinau's directions were clear, make sure the package does not get delivered and using any means necessary.  She knew that relieving the courier of the documents would not be accomplished on the plane, too many witnesses and a closed environment.  She would wait and take her chance in Barcelona when they landed.  The backup plan was to retrieve the information at the drop in Granada, thought that would require a personnel touch.  Irina would rather stay impersonal and at a distance; the anonymity was comforting.  

She sat back and started to daydream of her upcoming wedding.  

***

The plane landed in Barcelona and Sal proceeded to his first check-in point at the Duquesa de Cardona.  He arranged for a car through the concierge.  The instructions he found within the rental agreement told of his reservations at the Can Gaig Restaurant, well known for traditional Catalan meals.  He was to order the fabada and his next set of instructions would be passed on during the meal.  

The hotel room checked clean for bugs and Sal took the opportunity for a short nap before heading out for dinner at 10:00 p.m.  He took a taxi to Can Gaig and a table had been reserved under his cover.  He was seated near the window and ordered the fabada, as instructed.  Near the end of the meal the waiter spilled water on his lap.  After the mess had been cleaned up amidst profuse apologies, the waiter presented him a new napkin with paper folded into the hem.  Sal slipped the note into his pants pocket and finished his meal.  In the taxi on the way back to the hotel Sal read the note detailing the meeting time and location.  Burned the paper in the ashtray of his hotel room to remove any traceable clue as to where and when the drop would take place.

He took the overnight train to Granada, finishing the novel he had started on the plane.  The train arrived in Granada at 8:35 a.m. and Sal decided to sightsee a bit before he was to arrive at the Catedral.  His adventures took him through the Moorish areas of the City to view the Arabic architecture and then to the market to purchase jewelry for Patsy.  He decided to wait to see Alhambra the following day.

Just before 3:00 pm, he made his way to the Catedral de Granada. Sal took the guided tour and following the completion of the tour, went to inspect the San Jeronimo door.  He stood observing the beautiful carvings and heard someone behind him.

"Have you seen the Chapel yet?" 

"No, I was planning on going there next," Sal answered to the inquiry. 

"Be sure to visit the gift shop too, they have many beautiful postcards."  His contact had initiated contact as had been prescribed and Sal felt relieved.  

He put his hand in his jacket pocket and turned around to hand off the envelope.  A hand quickly went around his neck and he felt the cold steel bite into his flesh.  Instinctively his hands went to his throat and came away crimson.  A hand reached into his pocket and slipped the envelope from its resting place and gently lowered him to the ground.  

He tried to speak but only produced a bubbling noise and he slowly turned in the direction of his assassin.  He caught a flash of red lips and swinging brown hair as she turned away and blended in with the retreating tour group.  A pair of black woman's gloves sat at his feet mixed with the bracelets he had bought Patsy and his own blood.


	7. Insurance

Insurance 

One thing I've always observed about Irina is that she is intimately aware of her body, how it moves, how it reacts and what it is capable of accomplishing.  She has had that way about her from the beginning. She knows its strengths and weaknesses and knows exactly how far she can push it before it needs rest.  It was one of the things that the instructors at the training facility first noted about her.  She has the ability to use her size to her advantage in a fight and many men are deceived by her lithe shape and have paid considerably.  This does not only apply to her physical prowess.

A large part of her mystique is how mesmerizing and enticing she is to people in general and men specifically.  She can make everyone in a room notice exactly when she enters.  Or, if she is trying to be un-noticed, she has the ability to become invisible and completely blend into a crowd or into thin air.  The way she moves her body speaks volumes and the way she walks is entrancing.  Her hair and eyes are a lethal combination and have been the downfall of many powerful and seemingly untouchable men.  But the most dangerous part of her, and she knows it, is her mind.  She is brilliant and cunning and has analytical skills far and above most of our analysts.  She is truly one of the most dangerous (in so many ways) agents the KGB had ever produced.

When I first received this assignment as her handler, my superiors warned me about her and about getting close to her.  Soon I was under her spell and completely enthralled.  She is a magnificent creature and her allure is unprecedented.  It is almost legendary.  And there was a time I would have given up everything to make her mine.  I did try once and was so expertly rebuked I harbor no ill will.

However after time, I really got to know her.  She is the most ruthless person I have ever met. 

Her assignment for these past years has been to become involved in Jack Bristow's life and obtain as much information about the CIA, and primarily Project Christmas, as she could.   Her secondary assignment has been to execute missions on an as needed basis.  Most of these missions have involved obtaining information for the KGB, sometimes against CIA agents.  Some of these missions have resulted in the death of CIA agents.  Sometimes her methods have been extreme and these measures have aroused suspicion with our superiors.

However, my superiors were more than satisfied when she announced that she and Bristow were getting married, allowing her 24-hour access to his life and to what he knows.  She was able to obtain copies of several key Project Christmas documents and assist in filling gaps in the KGB's knowledge of the hierarchy of the CIA branch here and at Langley.  And so her sins were forgiven and she again returned to exulted status within the ranks our swallow agents and my superiors.

But I am no longer captured in her web and I am not as easily convinced.

Then she announced that she was pregnant.  The Director did not authorize this and I was ordered to have her abort the baby before Bristow found out.  We, the Director and I, were thoroughly outsmarted and the pregnancy continued its full and natural progression. And now the baby, Sydney, is two years old.  

Somehow she convinced our superiors that she needed a hiatus from extemporaneous missions while pregnant and while the baby was young.  She cited that Jack would not allow her to travel when pregnant and then again while the baby was young.  Now that the Bristow's have a live-in nanny Irina is again available for additional missions much to the joy of those in the chain of command above me.  I am not so sure.  

But now she informs me that she is moving to Los Angeles with Jack, as he's been reassigned, and this complicates everything.    Surely I will move too, as I have been directed.  She seems too happy to be out from underneath my immediate grasp and I am beginning to doubt her alliance.   There haven't been any large indicators that Irina's loyalties are shifting and her commitment to the cause is waning, just a series of small lies, half-truths and looks.  And those little things have piqued my suspicions in a big way.  

These Americans have an expression "cover your ass" that I believe applies to this situation. I have decided to take things into my own hands and make sure that when Irina is found to be a traitor, I will be exonerated.  

I sit here watching the moving van pack and load up the Bristow's belongings.  The workers look like a stream of ants between the house and the van.  Boxes and boxes of clothes, books, kitchen appliances, toys stream by.  One of the workers carrying a box marked "books" looks my way and nods.  

It has been done.

The names of the seven CIA agents that Irina has killed have been planted in her precious novels, using invisible ink.  If found and the Cyrillic writing decoded, the names of the deceased will identify Laura as an agent for the KGB and a traitor to the United States.  I have also taken the precaution of setting certain information aside that will arouse suspicion within the KGB once Irina is pulled from this assignment and returns to Russia.  

I wish that these precautions were not necessary, but this is Irina and that in its self is enough to warrant this and much, much more.


	8. Judas Thirty Pieces of Silver

Judas - Thirty Pieces of Silver  
  
He picked up the glass of whiskey and stared as the sweat dripped down the side of the glass. Slowly he raised the glass and set the cool glass against his throbbing forehead. With a small sigh, he rolled the glass against he temple and wondered how he had gotten to this point. When things had gotten so twisted and wrong and how he had got so mixed up. He tried to remember back to the point when he made the decision, the one that had changed everything and he had gone over to the dark side.  
  
And Walter Bash decided that he really didn't want to remember at all.  
  
He drank down the last of the whiskey with an audible gulp and signaled the bartender for another. He watched hungrily as the amber liquid filled the glass. The envelope in his pocket was burning a hole clear through to his soul and the whiskey temporarily stopped the burning. And again he wondered where this slippery slope to hell started.  
  
Was it when Paula left him and took the kids to Phoenix with her new husband? Was it when the office reorganized and he was taken out of the field? Was it when his drinking put his career and life in danger by getting arrested for DUI? Or was it when he started gambling uncontrollably? Whenever it was, his weakness left him vulnerable and they took full advantage of that.  
  
Their first request seemed like nothing, just a confirmation of a mission or a location; then a phone number or an address. And soon they were asking for an organization chart of the CIA office. The more he tried to get out, the more them brought him back in. That's when the alcohol and the gambling and the depression really went to work on Walter and he finally reached the point of not caring.  
  
He was jolted out of his reverie, "Red, can I get you another one?" the bartender picked up the empty glass and swiped the glass' sweat off the bar. Everyone called Walter "Red", not because he was a redhead, but because of the red heart tattooed on his right forearm. He pointed to his glass to confirm the barkeeps request and reached for the bowl of peanuts.  
  
Walter looked up from his newly filled glass and saw her reflection in the mirror behind he bar.  
  
"Well, well, well. The Reds finally send me someone I can appreciate. Hey there honey, come sit by me." He patted the barstool next to him several times, missing the actual seat half the time.  
  
"No thank you," the leggy brunette tersely replied.  
  
Irina was beginning to doubt this exchange would be as easy as Khasinau had indicated. One thing Alex was right about, though, was that this was a greasy, pitiable shell of a former agent. Had he not been a good supply of information, Irina doubted that this man could even function normally in real life. His clothes were wrinkled and soiled from not enough washing and the smell of alcohol seeped from his pores.  
  
"I suggest that we take our business into a more private location."  
  
"What ever you say darlin'. Lead the way," he slurred.  
  
Irina made her way back to a corner booth, as secluded as one could get in this run-down dive. She guessed that they could have gone into a backroom or bathroom, but she had no desire to fight off the advances of a drunken fool.  
  
"Mr. Bash, I believe you have some information for my superiors?"  
  
"What's with the Mr. Bash stuff, honey? Call me Red. I say we get the pleasure out of the way first before we get down to business." He leaned over the table and put his beefy hand on hers. Irina said nothing, but her look said volumes. Red shrugged and pulled his hand away. In that brief, nearly silent exchange, Red determined that this was not someone to take lightly. She was tough and in no mood to put up with a half-soused lout.  
  
He straightened up and tried to act as business-like as he could under the circumstances and began to explain.  
  
"When this request first came, I hesitated on getting the information. Not because it was difficult to get, but because of the actual information requested."  
  
"You are being amply compensated for your information Mr. Bash. I do not believe that my superiors..."  
  
"No, that's not it. I'm not looking for more money, though it would be nice. It's just that this list...these are people I work with every day. It's not like some schmuck in Washington who pushes pencils at headquarters. I know these people, their families, my kids used to play with their kids. And I don't want any of them to get hurt."  
  
"Well Red, I will say that your streak of loyalty is commendable, though untimely. I can only promise you this, I know of no reason these people would be harmed. I was informed that the list would only be used to help identify those we should be watching more closely."  
  
Irina spied beads of sweat forming on his upper lip and figured that she was pushing him too hard, though in her estimation, she wasn't pushing at all. She signaled the waitress to bring him another whiskey. Red's eyes lit up as if he were in a desert and just spied an oasis and reached for the glass as soon as the waitress returned. As he downed the liquor, Irina softly asked the waitress to bring over the remainder of the bottle. Irina figured the best way to get through this exchange was to keep Red drunk and fuzzy.  
  
After another drink or two, Red began asking more questions.  
  
"If these people are so harmless to Russia, why keep an eye on them at all? What have you got to fear from the lot of them?" It seemed as if he were trying to work the logic out for himself.  
  
"Tell me, Red, if you were asked to get your superiors a list of all of the KGB agents say in California, would you question that request?"  
  
"No. But if you were asked to give over that list to me, would you so eagerly jump at the chance?" he said, leaning his head onto his hand like it was being served up on a platter.  
  
"For the amount of money you are getting, yes I would."  
  
"Well, you are a heartless bitch," he spat.  
  
"Yes, and you are a hopeless drunk who owes some nasty people quite a bit of money." Irina was getting tired of this mission, for it had gone on much longer than anticipated and it was making her think too much.  
  
"Fine, fine" Walter sighed and reached into his pocket for the envelope and handed it to Irina.  
  
Irina, in return, gave him a brown manila envelope with the specified amount. He quickly opened the seal and his face filled with relief at the sight of the money. Now that he could pay off his debt, he swore to himself that this would be the last time. The last time for gambling and the last time for betraying his county.  
  
He noticed that the woman had not even opened the envelope to look at the list, but kept her gaze on him. She wore a puzzled expression. He hesitated to say something, but soon she shook herself out of the mist.  
  
Irina had briefly put herself in Walter's place, wondering if she really could have turned her friends, her family over to the enemy for money. What bothered her most was that it really didn't bother her, except for the brief image of her grandmother being manhandled by imposing policemen. One thing that the KGB had instilled in her was the ends always justify the means. She guessed that she had now realized that it was not always true.  
  
She slid out of the booth and nodded to Walter and walked, maybe a little less regally, out of the bar.  
  
Walter sat in that red vinyl covered bar for a long time, staring at the manila envelope and half bottle of whiskey on the table in front of him. Much to his surprise, the need for drink wasn't there. The weight of the money was putting out the fiery need for whiskey. He started to slide out of the booth and stopped himself, preferring to sit there, his glance shifting regularly between the bottle and the money.  
  
An hour or so later, he finally got up and headed for the front door, leaving the manila reminder sitting on the table. He had almost reached the door and a new beginning when he was gripped by panic, turned around the reached the table in two swift strides. He grabbed the envelope and sighed either in resignation or relief or both.  
  
Each step towards his car felt weighted and crushing. The exertion it took to put one foot in front of the other became oppressive and Red started huffing, gasping for air like a beached fish. Irina sat in her car and watched. She had been instructed to keep an eye on him for a while to make sure he didn't get nervous and call the CIA and confess.  
  
Red got to his car and slumped into the seat, each breath more difficult. He wiped the sweat from his brow and looked in the rearview mirror. His face was flush with color and his lips were blue and he knew that something was wrong. He looked around for a payphone to call for an ambulance, but didn't see one. He put his hands on the steering wheel and saw his knuckles whiten. Pain shot through his chest and down his arm and he instinctively put his hand to his chest. He looked for someone to help and made eye contact with Irina.  
  
Irina watched him as his heart stopped and his breathing stopped. His eyes remained on her even in death. She waited several more minutes, inspected the contents of the envelope and then drove off. 


	9. Simon The Zealot

Precipice  
  
Irina could not keep her eyes off the tip of Alex's cigarette. The ash tip hung precariously, just waiting for some sudden movement to knock it off onto the paper that Khasinau was studying. He, on the other hand, was so engrossed in the information on the paper, he had completely forgotten about the cigarette all together.  
  
"Well my dear, you're getting quite the reputation for killing CIA agents. What is the tally now, seven or eight?"  
  
"He's dead, yes, but I did not kill him. And there have only been seven, Alex."  
  
"Yes, yes" he replied. "Heart attack, the newspapers said. However the money made his death very suspicious and very public. Our superiors were not happy about that change in the mission." She felt herself bristle at Khasinau's implication. She did not take pleasure in killing, but if it was necessary, she did not shy from it. It had not been necessary to kill Mr. Bash, but in order to protect herself; she did not come to his aid either.  
  
"What would you have had me do; wait until the body was cold and snatch the envelope back? My fingerprints could have been found, still may be found, on the envelope."  
  
"You've always proven to be a rather resourceful girl, Irina. I believe you would have thought up a way, if you had tried." Khasinau reached for his cigarette and tapped the end on the ashtray, releasing a flurry of ashes. He finally looked up from the organization chart, a smile spreading across his face.  
  
"Lovely Irina, this information is just lovely. Our superiors are pleased."  
  
Irina stood up and walked to the window of the hotel room and stared out. She nodded, reached over and took the cigarette from Khasinau's mouth. She took a deep drag and gave it back to him. She turned back to the window and stared down at the park across the street.  
  
"Perhaps, perhaps. You may not have directly involved with Mr. Bash's death, Irina, but this next one you most definitely will." He motioned her over to the organizational chart and began to outline the assassination.  
  
Simon the Zealot  
  
Jack opened the door and was astounded at the visitors, Max Tidwell and his wife Caroline. Jack had invited his boss to the barbeque, along with the rest of the office; however, it was commonly known that Max never came to these types of events, citing the necessity of anonymity. But here Max and Caroline stood, smiles spreading across their faces at the sight of Jack dumbfounded. Jack held the door open wider with one hand and held a glass of scotch in the other.  
  
"Uh, come in, come in Max, Caroline. Welcome. Everyone is out in the back yard." Jack led the couple through the house to the back patio. Max placed a hand on Jack's shoulder as they passed through the kitchen.  
  
"Love the apron Jack, though I think I'll leave that up to your wife." Jack looked confused and then down to his "Kiss the Cook" apron.  
  
"Laura and Sydney bought this for Father's Day and insisted that I wear it. I can't say no to my two girls" he replied with a shrug of the shoulders.  
  
The dull roar of the party instantly quieted as Jack and Max came out the kitchen door. Jack steered the newest guests over to the makeshift bar and Laura while the buzz of conversation returned to a normal pitch.  
  
"Max, Caroline, this is my wife Laura. Laura, this is my boss and his wife. Be nice. And you're not to complain to him about how much I travel." Jack placed a quick kiss on Laura's cheek. Laura shook hands with both and took their drink orders.  
  
"Laura, I think I complain enough about the travel for all of the wives around here." Caroline confessed.  
  
"You're absolutely correct dear" Max confirmed and put his arm around his wife. Laura passed a bottle of beer to Max, a mixed drink to Caroline and continued chatting with the couple. Derry Crafton came up to the two couples and grabbed another beer from Jack.  
  
"Well boss, glad to see you decided to come to the party after all. Of course you come to Jack's party and not to my New Year's Eve bash. Typical. Now we all know your favorite." Derry hung onto Max's shoulder, hinting that he had more than enough to drink already.  
  
"Glad to see you still have that keen sense of observation there Derry. Keep it up." Max saluted the tipsy man with his bottle. Jack made his excuses to return to the grill while Laura and Caroline stepped inside to bring out the side dishes for the meal. Caroline admired the artwork that decorated the refrigerator.  
  
"Where is your daughter, Laura? I hear that she is quite the little genius," Caroline sincerely inquired. Laura pointed to the sleeping figure on the chaise lounge under the shady tree in the back.  
  
"She's napping right now. But she'll be hard to miss once she wakes up."  
  
"Oh, I remember that age very well. With my crew, it seems like they never grew out of it."  
  
"How many children do you have?" Laura inquired. They headed back outside to the table of food, which the men were hovering around.  
  
"We have three, two boys and a girl. Tim is starting college in a couple of months at Stanford and Sam will be a senior in high school. Lisa will be in the seventh grade this year."  
  
"I'm guessing they keep you very busy."  
  
"Absolutely. The boys played just about every sport imaginable and Tim was on the debate team too. I was so happy when they got their driver's licenses so I didn't have to cart them everywhere. Lisa has piano lessons and dance class. She has recently informed me that she wants to try out for the volleyball team when school starts." Caroline smiled and shook her head. "You'll be immersed in all of this soon. How old is Sydney?"  
  
"She is 3 and a half and already quite precocious. She's informed me that she wants to take dance lessons, ballet and tap." Laura looked over to the sleeping girl. "Where does Lisa take dance class?"  
  
"She loves her instructors at The Dance Academy on Stevens Street. Give them a call; they have a new session starting in two weeks. That reminds me, I should have Max stop by and pay for Lisa's classes. Luckily, he gets his hair cut nearby and has an appointment on Thursday. Saves me the trip over there." The two women nodded in agreement.  
  
"I'll give them a call and see if I can stop by and see a class. I'd like to see what the instructors are like with the younger children. Two weeks until classes start, Sydney will be so excited."  
  
Derry wedged himself into the group of men standing around the grill as Jack flipped a row of burgers.  
  
"So, Jack where's your shadow?" Derry laughed at his own joke. The remainder of the group looked at him with confusion and a bit of pity. He continued, "Arvin? Arvin Sloane, your sidekick Jack. Thought he'd be here already."  
  
Jack pursed is lips and then answered, "Arvin and Emily had a family function this morning. Emily's niece or nephew was being baptized, I think. They'll be here later." Jack returned to the task of moving the hot dogs to a cooler portion of the grill.  
  
"Is Arvin still spouting off about the Italian guy? Stromboli, Rombali, Rambaldi?" Max asked. "You know, the DeVinci wannabe? He's been bending my ear about this guy for a couple month's now, claiming that this guy was some kind of DaVinci, Nostradomus and Michelangelo wrapped up in one. Starting to go on about prophecies." Max wondered if Arvin was getting wrapped up in something that would take his concentration away from his job. Arvin did remind him of a pit bull; once he had his teeth into something he never would let go.  
  
Several of the others nodded in agreement and started talking all at once about Arvin and his newest favorite topic. Jack stepped up like the good friend.  
  
"Yes, he has become quite obsessed with Rambaldi lately. I did hear him out and read the information he gave me. I don't understand the obsession. Rambaldi seems to be an interesting character from the past, but with no real significance to today, as Arvin seems to think" Jack countered. "Give him some time, he'll loose interest fairly soon."  
  
Jack pronounced the meat on the grill was done to perfection and the mad rush for the food table began. The noise of the stampede woke Sydney. Laura moved over to the chaise and scooped Sydney up into her arms until the child completely woke up. Soon Sydney was completely captivating the partygoers and buzzed around the people looking for attention as a bee flits from flower to flower.  
  
***  
  
Thursday started hot and hazy and just got worse with every hour. While Sydney took a morning nap, Laura got her things together for the afternoon task. Up in the attic, she pulled the metal case out of the box containing Christmas decorations. She removed all of the tinsel clinging from static electricity and opened the case.  
  
Piece by piece she took the gun out and carefully inspected each part, cleaning it as she went. She pulled the silencer from the foam packing and slowly put all the pieces together, except for the clip. She tested the trigger and when satisfied, took the gun apart again and placed it back into its container. She patted the case as she carried it to the car.  
  
"Plan B" she pronounced as she placed the silver case under the front seat.  
  
She went back into the house and peeked into Sydney's room. The little girl was curled up on the bed, stuffed kitty clutched to her chest and thumb in her mouth. Laura watched for a few moments and then went into the kitchen to finish up the morning dishes.  
  
She finished drying the last bowl and picked up the phone and dialed a number from memory.  
  
"Mrs. Parker? Hello, this is Laura Bristow."  
  
"Yes, good morning to you too. I was wondering if you could watch Sydney for a few hours this afternoon. I have some shopping to do and I want to run by a dance school to see about signing Sydney up for classes."  
  
"Yes, she will be excited. I just don't want to take her just yet, in case I'm not impressed by the instructors."  
  
"You are right Mrs. Parker. Say about 2:45? I should be back by 5:30 or 6:00 at the latest."  
  
"I understand that is later than usual, but the dance class I want to observe begins at 4:30. Mr. Bristow is working late tonight or I'd have him pick Sydney up earlier."  
  
"That's wonderful. Thank you again and we'll see you in a few hours."  
  
"Yes, yes. Goodbye."  
  
She hung up the phone and mentally checked that task off her list. She picked up the phone again and dialed.  
  
"Hello, is this Yin's Dry Cleaning?"  
  
"This is Jane Moore. I'll pick up my cleaning this afternoon."  
  
"Thank you."  
  
She hung up the receiver and went over to the refrigerator to survey the contents for ideas for lunch.  
  
At 2:50, Laura dropped Sydney off at Mrs. Parker's and headed over to Stevens Street. Laura sat in on the 3:30 toddler's ballet class and afterwards stayed for a few minutes of the beginner's tap class at 4:30. Satisfied, she went to the reception desk and received an application to sign Sydney up for both classes. She told the receptionist she would bring the form back tomorrow, she had forgot the checkbook and she wanted to double check with her husband.  
  
She headed back to her car, which was parked in the shady alley next to the building. Its position afforded a good view of the sidewalk, but far enough back that it wouldn't be readily noticed. She opened her purse and removed the coiled wire and placed it her pocket. She pulled the silver case from underneath the front seat and with eyes trained on the sidewalk, put the gun together from memory, slipping the clip into place with a small click. She placed the gun in her purse and placed her keys in the ignition of the car. She opened her purse, spied the spare set of keys and closed it again. She reached under her seat for the metal coat hanger.  
  
As she looked up, her target came into view. She waited a few minutes, took her time getting out of the car, locked the door and ruffled her hair slightly. She huffed a few times, affecting a hurried attitude and walked briskly back to The Dance Academy dropping the coat hanger near the end of the alley.  
  
Max Tidwell practically ran into her as he was leaving the dance studio.  
  
"Laura, what a pleasant surprise. Max Tidwell, we met at your barbeque on Saturday."  
  
"Ah, sorry Mr. Tidwell. I didn't mean to run you over like that." She offered her hand.  
  
"Please call me Max. What's wrong, you look a bit flustered?"  
  
"I had stopped by to check out the dance studio as your wife had suggested and I got back to my car and realized I locked the keys inside. I was heading back to see if they'd let me use the phone to call Jack or a tow truck. I'm supposed to pick Sydney up from the babysitters in less than a half hour." She tucked her hair behind her ear and continued to look hurried.  
  
Max put his hand on her elbow and leaned in close.  
  
"If you don't tell anyone, I was a bit of a delinquent in my youth. I bet I can help. Which way to your car?" Laura led the way to the alley. Max spotted the metal coat hanger that Laura had dropped earlier and picked it up with a conspiratorial wink.  
  
They reached the car and went to the driver's side, next to the building wall, so that Max could inspect the situation.  
  
"Yes ma'am, there are your keys dangling in the ignition. I should be able to get the door open in a jiffy." He bent over, staring into the car and began untwisting the coat hanger. Laura slipped the coiled wire from her pocket and swiftly placed the garrote around his neck, pulling sharply.  
  
Max instantly dropped the hanger and reached for his neck, struggling against Laura as best as he could.  
  
"Laura," he tried to shout. Getting his footing, he reared back and slammed her against the wall. He leaned forward and tried to use his strength to throw her over his shoulder. She countered the movement and kept behind him, never loosening her grip.  
  
She pulled tighter until he lost his strength. Max's body went limp and she eased him down next to the wall. She checked for a pulse and found he was dead, slipped the wire from his neck. She slowly raised her head and looked around quickly confirming that no one had witnessed the deed.  
  
Laura picked up her purse, unlocked the car and slipped the purse, garrote and coat hanger inside. She put on a pair of driving gloves and went to the dumpster nearby and grabbed a few trash bags. She placed them over the body, got in the car, pulled out of the alley and slowly, calmly drove away.  
  
A few miles away, she stopped at McDonald's and put the gloves and coat hanger into an outside trash bin. The garrote was placed back into her purse. She went inside, washed her hands and patted her face and neck with a damp cloth.  
  
Irina returned to her car, pulled out of the parking lot and headed towards Mrs. Parker's house. 


	10. James the Less Falling Down

James the Less – Falling Down  
  
William stood up and clicked for a new slide on the screen in front of everyone in the Ops Center.  
  
"This is Mossad Arif, self-appointed general in the Somalian Liberation Army, the SLA. We've picked up an encrypted message that he is meeting a high-ranking officer with the KGB for a transfer of critical information concerning nuclear weapons in Kazakhstan. The meeting is set in Boston for Friday the 3rd. We're not certain who he's meeting, but intelligence suggests that it may be this man."  
  
The picture changed again.  
  
"We have no other information on this man except that his name is Alex and he's been in the country for several years. He's been tied surreptitiously to several KGB agents, but we've never had enough proof to kick him out of the country."  
  
Again the slide changed to a aerial diagram of Boston Harbor.  
  
"The meeting will be here during the USS Constitution Turn Around at the Boston Harbor Fest. Dar, you'll be there keeping it all under surveillance. We've got the cooperation of the US Navy for your surveillance. The meeting point is located here, and will be swarming with people." A close up of the wharf area appeared on the screen and William pointed out several key locations.  
  
"The difficult part of this job will to keep tabs on Mossad and Alex in the crowd. Remember, we're looking to gather information only. We will not be detaining anyone, just getting pictures and audio. I will be here at Ops keeping an eye on you." He looked pointedly at Dar. "This is your first solo mission and I know that you are more than ready."  
  
Darwin Langston sat up a bit straighter and nodded his head, the lump in his throat preventing him from responding.  
  
"Do you have any questions, Agent Langston?"  
  
"Not at this time."  
  
"Good. Check in with Op Tech for the hardware required. If you have any questions before you leave, please don't hesitate to ask."  
  
"Thank you Agent Vaughn, I will keep that in mind."  
  
The rest of the occupants of the room exited, leaving Dar flipping through the file over and over again as if to memorize every detail.  
  
William stood outside the room watching his young protégée and hoped that he had been right to assign this mission to him.  
  
***  
  
"Delivery for Mr. Stanislav." Irina walked into the hospital room carrying a bouquet of flowers and had to bite her tongue at the sight of Alex Khasinau in a blue flowered hospital gown.  
  
"Thank you. Please put them on the window sill." Irina did so, then peaked out the door and gently closed it.  
  
"How's the hospital food?" Irina's eyebrow rose as she sat in the visitor's chair. Khasinau swore softly in Russian and tried to sit up a bit taller.  
  
"How did you manage to get double pneumonia?"  
  
"I am at a loss on how I contracted this, but since I will be confined to the hospital for a few more days, I need your help." He motioned for Irina to get the manila folder sitting on the nightstand.  
  
"I figured as much when I got your message." She leaned back while Alex detailed the mission to Boston. She flipped through the file as he spoke of the exchange with the representative of SLA.  
  
"Mossad is not the kindest of men and, I hate to say, has a very low opinion of your entire gender in particular. I have sent a message via channels to inform him that you will attend the meeting in my stead. I hope that he remains civil to you. You will be giving him the information contained in this folder in exchange for a roll of film containing troop movement schedules, aerial photographs and a list of informants. You will place this information in a replica of The USS Constitution and his information will be encased in a toy drum, which he will give you."  
  
"Will the exchange be a brush pass or will it be more involved?"  
  
"That depends on Mossad. Sometimes he like to engage in his version of hanging with friends, so be prepared."  
  
"Lucky me."  
  
***  
  
The video feeds were being checked for the third time as Dar settled into position in the third floor window of the old warehouse on the northwest side of the wharf.  
  
"Mariner, this is Deckhand, do you read?"  
  
"Deckhand, we receive you loud and clear. What is the status?"  
  
"The crowds are beginning to really fill in the area. No sign of our two friends. How's the audio?"  
  
"Perfect. We're getting a very crisp signal. How's the visual coverage?  
  
"I have almost total coverage using the two video cameras. The only blind spot is near the southwest corner of the plaza and I'm keeping an eye on that area instead."  
  
"Deckhand, just remember to keep a low profile. You don't want to be made again." William chuckled lightly, knowing that he had reprimanded Dar for becoming too exposed during a training mission. He heard Dar snicker in response; it had turned into a joke between them.  
  
Silence returned and everyone went into surveillance mode.  
  
Irina clutched her bag, which contained a model of the ship, and surveyed the crowd from her vantage spot overlooking the festivities. She had already spotted the CIA operative in the warehouse; such a fresh faced young kid. She hoped that he was there only to observe.  
  
She had yet to spot Mossad, but she was early as usual. She always liked to get a complete lay of the land and determine several exit strategies out before the actual meeting.  
  
Mossad stood on the fringe and studied the crowd. The myriad of people in the crowd amazed and repelled Mossad. America was so corrupt and tolerant and he was certain that they would pay for their arrogance. His friend Alex was nowhere to be found and Mossad began to worry that the exchange would not take place. His associates were counting on the information that he would be receiving from the KGB and they, in turn, had appeared eager to get the surveillance data and weapons supplies.  
  
Irina started through the crowd, weaving in and out of the masses. She carried the replica of the ship in a paper bag and kept switching the bag between her hands. Her eyes flitted around the crowd looking for the toy drum. She spotted her contact and slowly migrated that way.  
  
"Excuse me," she tapped Mossad on the shoulder, "where did you get that drum? My son would love one."  
  
Mossad turned around and glared at this impertinent woman.  
  
"I do not care about you or your son, madam. Please bother someone else, I have no time for you." He turned around and continued to assess the crowd.  
  
She swore at him in a mixture of Russian and his own language. "You ignorant pig."  
  
She started to walk away, ready to throw the whole mission away and incur Alex' wrath.  
  
Dar ran to the next window over and jockeyed for a better view of the person that had approached Mossad. It was a woman and he aimed the parabolic microphone toward their location. He was awarded with a flurry of angry words in several languages. Dar did not understand a word, but felt himself blush with the implied tone. He pulled out his camera and attached the telescopic lens, hoping to get a picture of the woman.  
  
Mossad's head whipped around in response to the barrage of obscenities and noticed the bow of the ship poking out of the woman's bag.  
  
"Deckhand, are you getting the exchange?"  
  
"Yes. I'm trying to get a picture of the woman that approached Mossad. I think that she was sent in Alex' place."  
  
"We need a picture of her. If she was sent in Alex's place, she must be very important. The KGB is very eager for this information."  
  
"Right."  
  
Mossad grabbed the woman's arm to stop her retreat and pointed toward the bag. "Where is your husband?"  
  
"He's unfortunately detained at the hospital."  
  
"I'm sorry to hear that, I miss seeing my old friend."  
  
"Yes, he sends his regrets."  
  
Dar kept the camera trained on the woman, snapping pictures automatically. The woman's face remained obscured, either by movements of the other people in the crowd, by shadows or by her hair. The camera whined, indicating that a new roll was needed. Dar fumbled for another roll of film, dipped the microphone away from the pair and was rewarded with a harsh reminder from Agent Vaughn. Dar readjusted the microphone and loaded the film into the camera. He frantically searched the crowd to find his target again and resumed taking pictures.  
  
"I see that you bought a model of the ship. May I look at it?" Mossad eyed the bag hungrily and his fingers twitched in anticipation.  
  
"I would like to see the drum, if you please." Irina schooled her expression to hide her eagerness and she pulled her hair back away from her face.  
  
Dar watched the movement happen in slow motion and was startled by the view of her face that he almost forgot to click the shutter.  
  
Irina felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise and she whipped around and looked at the warehouse and directly at Dar. He ducked back into the shadows as soon as he realized that she had looked at him. Her eyes narrowed and she quickly turned her back to the surveillance. She handed Mossad the bag and he placed the drum into her hands.  
  
Irina nodded and without even inspecting the drum, she walked away from Mossad.  
  
With a nod of his head, Mossad's men moved toward the warehouse that had caught Irina's attention. Irina disappeared into the crowd, swallowed by the red, white and blue swirling bodies.  
  
Dar searched through the telescopic lens, sifted through the blurry faces and swore as he lost them both.  
  
"Mariner, I've lost them both. They disappeared into the crowd. But I got a picture of them both."  
  
"Did the exchange take place?"  
  
"Yes. I got it all on tape and film."  
  
"Good job Deckhand. Wrap it up and head back to port."  
  
Dar began to rewind the tape and dismantle the microphone, not noticing the two men enter the first floor of the building.  
  
Irina took the stairs to the third floor two at a time, hoping to give the agent some warning. She came up behind him and held up her gun.  
  
"I would suggest that you take cover right now," she whispered, "Mossad's men are on their way up." Dar's head whipped around and saw the gun trained on him and his hand automatically went to his shoulder holster.  
  
"I am not here to hurt you, my young CIA friend, but to give you a warning. Please do not make me defend myself." Irina inwardly sighed.  
  
Dar's hand relaxed and dropped to his side. Irina heard the door at the southern stairwell creak and ran for cover. Dar, startled, took a few seconds more to find shelter as bullets began ricocheting off the steel beams. He slunk behind the crates that he had his equipment propped on and whispered frantically into the microphone.  
  
"Under fire, requesting immediate backup."  
  
"Hold on Dar, I've got people on their way." Agent Vaughn barked orders to the crew in the relay truck and had another agent notify the local police.  
  
Irina began to return fire, aiming to maim Mossad's men. The bullets whizzed past the first man's head and he dropped and rolled to the right behind a concrete column. The second man dove to the north behind a large packing crate. Dar pulled his gun and aimed in the direction of the most gunfire.  
  
The crate absorbed several bullets in return and his hand shot around the side and plugged several shots into the concrete above the man's head.  
  
Irina crawled toward Dar, using several crates and a desk as cover. This young agent was not prepared to defend himself against Mossad's well-armed men. Her head snapped back behind the desk as the buzz of a bullet went by. She swore to herself in Russian.  
  
Mossad's men were slowly navigating the perimeter of the room, using the columns and furniture scattered about, trying to trap Dar and Irina between them. Irina shot several rounds at the upended table near the southern windows; she was rewarded by a small moan. She had hit one of them, but not mortally as he returned fire in her direction.  
  
She reached a crate near Dar and caught his attention.  
  
"Back up?" she mouthed. A bullet hit the parabolic microphone on the top of the crate and pieces of plastic and metal rained around her.  
  
"On the way" Dar responded, getting a shot or two off in the interim.  
  
Dar could hear Agent Vaughn cursing and barking orders in his earpiece, between pleading with him to stay down and informing him reinforcements were on the way.  
  
Another piece of equipment exploded and Dar looked in horror as film flew like confetti around him. He tried to grab it instinctively, knowing that the pictures were crucial and was not aware of the man coming up behind him. Irina caught the movement out of the corner of her eye, dropped and shot just over Dar's shoulder. At the same instant, Dar moved to the right to get the remains of the camera.  
  
Slowly he looked down to the hole in his shirt and back to Irina as the blood blossomed red against white. Irina took a second shot and Mossad's man dropped like a rag doll. Sirens wailed up the alley and Irina touched the boy's cheek.  
  
"I'm sorry," she whispered in Russian. She picked up Dar's gun and shooting both her gun and Dar's simultaneously at Mossad's remaining man, she ran toward the nearest stairwell and exit. 


	11. Simon Peter Cornerstone

Simon Peter - Cornerstone  
  
William Vaughn was hovering and it was making Jason very nervous. Jason was slowly trying to retrieve the image off of the recovered pieces of film from the warehouse. The twins were manning the darkroom; their recovery rate was legendary. Both human and computer were analyzing the bits of film that they developed. Jason's job was to oversee the retrieval crew.   
  
Word was that Agent Vaughn had been haunting the crew over at audio too. They were trying to get a voiceprint for the woman; but she was eluding them. There was no record of her in the files; it was as if she was a ghost of a woman, there was only a blurry image but she was not corporeal.  
  
He was on a crusade it was being rumored, obsessed after Dar's death. He wanted to find those responsible and make them pay. Mossad had disappeared off the radar and there was still no lead on the mystery woman. The CIA was exhausting their leads to find them all including Alex.   
  
All of the evidence from the warehouse was being sifted through, down to the smallest spec of dust. It was being categorized and analyzed by the best and the brightest. Vaughn even recruited analysts from other divisions to aid in the analysis and reconstruction of the final minutes of the battle at the warehouse. There had to be a lead there somewhere, a lead to Mossad and his female contact. And Agent Vaughn wasn't going to sleep until he found it.  
  
Downstairs another kind of information gathering was taking place. Mossad's man was recovering, injured but alive, unlike his partner. Sharmat Toq was spending quality time in the interrogation room. He was being less than cooperative and his interrogators were getting tired of his evasiveness. The information that had been gathered thus far was sparse, but much could be gleaned from the obtrusive answers.   
  
"Mr. Toq, I think we've been cooperative enough here. You received food and drink and we even allowed you a Turkish cigarette. I suggest you answer more of our questions," the blonde agent leaned across the table into Sharmat's face as the silent black haired interrogator sat back in his chair.  
  
The blond picked up a file and unfolded a map. He placed it on the table in front of the prisoner. "Please indicate where Mossad has strongholds." Sharmat stared at the map intently and slowly leaned back into the chair and stared at the blonde, a smirk sliding across his face. The black- haired agent leaned forward and rested his elbows onto his knees. The blonde sat still on the corner of the table and waited.  
  
Several minutes of silence ticked by and then Sharmat shrugged his shoulders, "I do not know."  
  
"That is not what we were hoping to hear."  
  
The silent agent stood up and closed the blinds on the observation window. He slid the briefcase out from underneath the chair and popped the locks. A smile crept along the corners of his mouth. Sharmat was about to learn that making this man smile was a very bad thing.  
  
***  
  
Irina blended into the back of the crowd at Langley for the ceremony at the wall of the heroes. Her black suit and hat resembled those worn by most of the women in the party nearest to the front.  
  
Silent tears streamed down her face as the chaplain read a passage from the Bible.   
  
"The Lord is my Shepard..." faded into her and she found herself reciting a prayer she had learned in secret as a child.  
  
This star represented a failure on her part to keep someone safe and this touched and troubled her deeply. She wondered if she could keep her family safe. Safe from the KGB, safe from Alex, safe from the pain she would undoubtedly cause them. If she couldn't prevent the death of this boy, how could she prevent her family from the same measure of pain? To cause the kind of grief she registered on the family and friends of this young agent cut her to the quick. She never wished that sort of pain on anyone, and even more so on Jack and Sydney. Until this moment, she hadn't truly known the full ramifications of her job and for that she was sorry. But to quit her job was unthinkable, for it too had painful ramifications. She was stuck and she did not like that, not one bit.  
  
She was looking forward to the plane ride back to LA; she planned to sleep the entire time. Her arms ached for a hug from her favorite little girl and she longed to curl up in the comfort and the consolation of Jack's arms. As the ceremony came to a conclusion, Irina vanished.   
  
***  
  
The photo image of the woman was blurry and most of her face was in shadow. It apparently was the best of the bunch that the technicians were able to recover from Dar's decimated camera and William was beginning to become discouraged. The audiotapes did not supply any usable information; except that the woman could swear in a variety of languages and that she also spoke English without a discernable accent.  
  
Word from downstairs was that the prisoner hadn't divulged any information yet. William continued to flip through the pictures, looking deep and hoping.   
  
Derry Cranston ambled by, carrying a fresh cup of coffee, and leaned over the table where William sat.   
  
"Any leads there, chief?" Derry set the coffee cup down and picked up a few photos and flipped through them.   
  
"Nothing terribly usable at this time. We've still not found any leads on the woman."  
  
"She kinda looks familiar, you know?" Derry set the pictures down and took a sip.   
  
William looked at Derry with thinly veiled disbelief. It was widely known that Derry used to be a good agent before he spent more time with a bottle than with anything else. There was gossip about the office that Derry would soon be forced into rehab in order to keep his job. William had always felt a bit sorry for Derry; he was a troubled man, loosing his partner to a sadistic KGB agent and then loosing his wife to another man. Derry did his best to stay sober at the office and William took pity on the guy, feeding him easy analysis work from time to time. But he also knew that Derry had his limitations, was unpredictable, was a liar and really needed help.  
  
"If you squint a bit, she could be the sister to Bristow's wife." Derry shrugged and turned away leaving William to pick up the photograph once more.   
  
He had never met Bristow's wife and was only a passing acquaintance to Bristow. The man was a legend already, though he was about the same age as William. He wondered if Derry had something there. Wouldn't that take the cake? The CIA's best and brightest unknowingly married to a KGB agent. William chuckled to himself and dismissed the thought.  
  
Sweat rolled down Sharmat's face, mixing with the pinpricks of blood on his jaw line. Blood was drying in small lines on his arms and chest in contrast to the paleness of his skin. This time the blonde sat in the chair and the black-haired agent leaned against the table, admiring his handiwork.  
  
"Back to the original question, where are Mossad's hideouts?"  
  
Sharmat stayed quiet, but appeared to pale with the question and the thought of the consequences. He leaned in slightly and again looked at the map. His hands began to shake and sweat poured down his face. He looked at the men, eyes wide with fear, and shook his head.  
  
"Still not cooperating, huh? How about starting with something a bit easier? Could you get in touch with him and arrange a meet?"  
  
Sharmat contemplated the question for a few moments and ever so slightly nodded his head.  
  
"Good, good. Now we're getting somewhere."  
  
***  
  
Alex picked up the coffee cup and sipped the steaming liquid. Putting the cup down again, he added a bit more cream to it and stirred.  
  
"You really must have made an impression on Mossad because he's requested you specifically for another exchange."  
  
Irina leaned back in the chair, relishing the breeze coming off the ocean. She smelled the salt in the air and picked at the croissant on the saucer in front of her. She slipped her foot out of the sandal and drew lazy designs in the sand with her toes.  
  
"I'm not sure it was a good impression, Alex."  
  
She stopped her desecration of the croissant and picked up her teacup. She took several sips, looking out to the water and wished again for something more.   
  
"Whatever the circumstance, you are to meet him next week in Tirana, Albania in three days. He indicated that he has updated information on CIA assets inside the Soviet Union."   
  
"Wonderful."  
  
***  
  
Derry's comment kept niggling at William's brain even after a few days. He knew for certain that this woman couldn't be Bristow's wife. But what if they could use her features as a starting point for reconstructing the image? William checked with the secretary up in Bristow's division and found out that Jack was away on a mission. Maybe there was a photo in Jack's office that could be borrowed without him finding out? William sure as hell didn't want to commit resources to get a photo of Mrs. Bristow, it just wouldn't go over good with anyone and he would be seripticiouly pointing a finger at Jack.  
  
William was certain that he didn't want to say to Jack Bristow "Someone said your wife looks like this KGB agent we're trying to identify. Mind if I borrow a photo of her?" He couldn't imagine a positive outcome from that conversation.  
  
William caught the elevator up to the 4th floor and headed toward Jack's office.   
  
"Well, hello, Agent Vaughn. We don't see you up here that often." It was the secretary for the division that he had just called.  
  
"Hello Mrs. Calaveri. I don't get up here much, your right."  
  
"Can I help you?" she asked, looking at the manila folder in his hand.  
  
"No, no, but thank you. I'm leaving this information on Jack's desk. We talked about it a while back and I just got the results from deciphering. I'll just put it on his desk so that he sees it when he returns."  
  
"Okay. If you need my help, just ask." She scooted off down the hallway, looking as hurried as the rest of the secretaries around.  
  
Jack's office was spotless, like he never spent any time in there at all. There were two folders on the right side of his desk and a small tasteful picture of his wife and daughter in a frame. William took the back off the picture frame and took out the photograph to get copied. He couldn't help but notice that Derry may have been right. The fuzzy picture of the woman on his desk was quite similar to the woman in the picture he was holding.  
  
William turned and put the picture in his manila folder, placing the frame back in its original location. Hopefully no one would notice the picture was gone before he had the chance to return it. He left Jack's office, waved to Mrs. Calaveri and headed down to op tech for a camera. Later that night, when the secretaries had all left, he retuned the photo to its rightful place.  
  
As William studied the two pictures side by side, his stomach dropped like a runaway elevator. The similarities in the shape of the face were striking. Sure, the KGB agent appeared to have short blonde hair, whereas Mrs. Laura Bristow had longer brown hair, but wigs were easily available in LA and elsewhere. After careful consideration, he decided to not reveal the finding to anyone without further proof.  
  
***  
  
Irina snuggled closer to Jack under the covers and kissed him on the neck. "Are you sure that it will be fine if I go to the seminar in Katharine's place?"  
  
"Honey, I already agreed. Sydney and I will have some special father- daughter time while your gone. I'll take a few days off and we'll go to the zoo, the carousel and the beach. You go to Houston and have a good time." Jack's hand trailed from her hair downward, coming to rest in the small of her back.  
  
"Its just that Katharine broke her leg and can't attend the national conference for Post-Renaissance European Literature professors. This is not my favorite era of literature, but besides, Katharine and I have the most work in the post-renaissance."  
  
"Yes, yes Laura. Go. Have a good time and buy me a present. Sydney might like one too." He kissed her on the forehead and reached over her to turn off the lamp, pulling her closer.  
  
***  
  
The director of the LA office looked at William for his reaction and was not disappointed. His face registered both surprise and disbelief.   
  
"I really think I would be of better use running the ops here."  
  
"I disagree. I want you in the field for this one William. I need a cool head for this operation and you are that man. Take Simons and Heller with you. The mission scenario will be ready within the hour."   
  
The mission was fairly straightforward; Mossad was convinced to set up another meeting with the mystery woman. The meeting would be taking place in a shipping warehouse in Tirana, Albania. Simons and Heller would be providing the secondary surveillance while William would be the point guy inside the building. His job was to detain the woman following the meeting and Simons and Heller were to apprehend Mossad. The general would be sent back to Somalia for trial for the failed coup attempt, which was likely to be swift and the punishment was public hanging.   
  
***  
  
"So nice to see you again, darling." Mossad kissed Irina's hand and she resisted pulling away and wiping her hand off.  
  
"Yes, yes. Good to see you too. Alex says you have some information for us?" Irina was starting to get a bad feeling about this meeting. Something just wasn't right.  
  
"Ah. How is Alex? Is he out of the hospital yet?" Mossad was being awfully chatty and Irina didn't like it.  
  
"Yes, he is recovering nicely. Were is the intel?" Mossad's men were milling about, apparently apprehensive about something. Everything about this meet was making Irina nervous and she was eager to get the exchange done and home. Irina brought out her file folder containing the photographs and documents Mossad had requested. She hoped this action would light a fire under Mossad.  
  
He got the hint and motioned for his bodyguard to turn over the briefcase he was holding. Mossad opened the case and pulled out several files and opened them up, spreading the documents across the table in front of him.   
  
"This is for you. I hope you appreciate it." Mossad smiled and waved his hand backward to his men. They did a quick survey of the room and headed quickly out the door.   
  
Mossad leaned in and whispered, "I would suggest you be quick about it, my dear." He flashed his palm at her and swept out of the room.  
  
A few slow moments passed, as Irina comprehended what Mossad had told her and shown her. He was warning her that they had been under surveillance and that he had rigged the building to blow up. Irina set about getting the papers together all the while questioning why she just didn't give them to whoever was watching. She wasn't certain she'd be able to get out without being apprehended.  
  
She turned at the clicking of someone walking in behind her; an agent, most likely American, was walking toward her raising his gun. She pulled her gun and raised it, matching his. William was startled to realize that this was Jack Bristow's wife standing in front of him. His mind was rebelling at the thought of this woman being a KGB agent and she had been compromising Jack for years. He regretted learning the truth and his heart ached for the betrayal that Jack would soon realize.   
  
Staring down the barrel of her gun into the barrel of his, she knew instantly that this was a "kill or be killed" situation. And she really hated being in that position. Jack knows this man and his family. Irina was already regretting the necessity of her actions and grieving for the life she must take and the lives she would affect.   
  
"I am here to take you into custody for suspected treason against the United States. Throw down your weapon."  
  
"I'm sorry, I can not do that."  
  
"Cooperate and I'll do what I can to get you the best possible treatment."  
  
"I'm sorry Agent Vaughn, but you must know I can not and will not surrender."  
  
"Then I'm sorry too." He paused. "What is your real name?"  
  
"I cannot divulge my name for your safety and my own."  
  
William looked at this woman, Laura or whoever she really was, and recognized the resolve in her eyes. He came to the realization that his wife would soon be a widow and his son would finish growing up without a father. His heart ached and he swallowed the lump in his throat. He steadied his gun with his other hand.   
  
"You have a daughter, don't you Laura? She's almost 6 right?"  
  
Irina nodded.  
  
"I have an eight year old son. His name is Michael and he is going to be one hell of a hockey player. I would do any thing for him; I would die for him if need be. Can you say the same? Would you die for your family? Your country asks that you sacrifice yourself for it, but can you do the same for your husband and daughter?"  
  
"To protect my family, I would kill. To protect my country, I would do the same." She hesitated at the thought of dying for anyone.  
  
"But could you die? Could you sacrifice yourself, could you leave them in order that they might live? If given the choice between them and the loyalty to your country, whom would you pick?"  
  
Irina was conflicted. No one had ever asked her to sacrifice her family so pointedly. She knew one day that she would give them up, when the KGB decided. But to give them up voluntarily so that they could survive; she was unsure.  
  
"Agent Vaughn, I am glad that you area so certain that you would sacrifice yourself for your family and perhaps your country. I am sorry that I may facilitate your sacrifice."  
  
"You could always cooperate. If you provide intelligence to the CIA, they may be able to offer contact with your family in exchange. Arrangements can be made."  
  
"I'm sorry Agent Vaughn, but I do not have that luxury."  
  
"But you could." Seconds ticked by and tension cut through the air.  
  
There was no discernable flinch or movement to preclude the action, but both guns went off and for a moment there was silence and stillness. The sound of the gunshots rolled through the air. Then it seemed as though a giant vacuum had been instantly turned on and all of the air was sucked from the building. Irina gasped like a fish out of water and slowly began to move toward the door. Her feet were cemented to the spot. Neither she nor William have moved and inch and she starts to wonder if the guns actually went off or if it was just a figment of her imagination.  
  
Time caught up with her as the repercussion of the explosion hit her. Heat seared through her body and her lungs filled with hot suffocating smoke. Her feet became unglued and headed to the door, pulling the rest of her body along. She sped out of the building as William's body was slumping toward the floor as the wave of fire filled the warehouse.  
  
William felt the bullet hit his chest with the force of a lightening bolt and his legs became gelatinous and gave way. He wished that he could kiss his beautiful wife goodbye; he would miss her sweet smile. He regretted that he would never see the amazing man Michael would become. He smelled the metallic sweetness of his blood pouring out of his chest and mixed with the smoke of burning plaster. Concrete dust preceded the heat wave of the fire and for a moment he was afraid. William pictured his family one last time as he lost consciousness.  
  
Irina's feet stopped at the asphalt road and she turned around, feeling the heat sear her cheeks. Black, menacing smoke billowed out of the door and high windows of the warehouse and the aluminum siding curled like baby's hair. A figure ran out of the side door of the building, flames attached to its clothes, consuming with deadly accuracy. She knew that this was not William for she had seen him in a pool of blood before the ball of fire had pushed her out the door. The man dropped to the ground and rolled like a fish thrown ashore, flopping back and forth in an attempt to put out the flames. In the distance sirens wailed and she was certain that an ambulance would arrive soon enough for this agent. She also knew with absolute certainty that a pair of black- suited CIA agents would soon be visiting Mrs. Vaughn and she felt heartbreak.   
  
She smelled the acrid taste of burnt hair and noticed that a chunk of her hair was missing, the remaining ends singed. Irina sighed with the thought of cutting her hair and having to explain that to Jack. She suddenly was longing to be in his arms, safe and warm and her memory of this incident tucked back into the corner of her mind. She walked away, blending into the crowd of onlookers that had begun to gather. 


	12. Bartholomew Severing Innocence

Bartholomew – Severing Innocence  
  
"Mommy, you got another book from Daddy." Sydney stood at the front door offering the brown wrapped package as if it were a crown of gold.  
  
"Thank you darling." Irina took the package from her hands and kissed the top of her head. "Let's go see what story we got this time."  
  
Sydney held her mother's hand as they walked into the house and through to the kitchen. Irina poured two glasses of lemonade, as was their habit, and carried them out to the patio. Sydney sat patiently on the wicker chair, her feet swinging but her hands still.  
  
Irina took a drink of her lemonade and then began to remove the wrapping. Blue embossed leather blossomed from beneath the brown paper, gilded edges catching the sunlight. Sydney leaned over to ooh and ahh over the beautiful book.  
  
"What is it, Mommy?"  
  
"Romeo and Juliet by William Shakespeare."  
  
"Tell me the story."  
  
"It is a sad story about love, Sydney." Irina stood and held out her hand. "Let's go fix dinner for Daddy and I'll tell you the story before bed."  
  
"But Mommy, I thought love stories were happy."  
  
"Not all, sweetie. Not all of them."  
  
*** 1957  
  
Andrei Chenerev watched from his car as Maureen Nelson walked out of the doctor's office. She paused and placed one hand on the granite wall while her other hand massaged her lower back through the soft folds of her maternity shirt.  
  
He continued to observe her as she slowly walked down the sidewalk and settled on the bench next to the bus stop. She wiggled about trying to find a comfortable position' eventually she stopped fidgeting and pushed herself back to a standing position. She leaned heavily on the back of the bench and Andrei could see her sigh from his location.  
  
The number 10 bus pulled to the stop minutes later and the woman got on board. Andrei watched as she lowered herself into a seat near the front and he continued to stare as the bus pulled away. *** 1981  
  
George Nelson jogged through Silver Spring Park completely unaware that he was being watched. He stayed along the crushed gravel path as it wound past the pond and along the edge of the woods. Occasionally he wiped at the sweat on his brow and began a second circuit.  
  
Irina absently flipped the pages of the novel in her hand, rolling over onto her stomach. To the casual observer she was just another person enjoying the park on a beautiful day, but she was there to keep an eye on George. She took a sip from her soda can and watched as George slowed to a walk, making his way off the path and towards a picnic table. He grabbed a towel off the table and wiped down his limbs. Irina stood, her eyes never leaving George and folded up the blanket she had been lying on.  
  
George picked up the duffle bag and walked to his car, stopping by a water fountain for a drink. Irina got into her rented c, following as he drove out of the park and to his apartment.  
  
*** 1957  
  
It was the middle of the night and the hospital nursery was nearly deserted except for a few of the new fathers. Andrei slipped into the hall from the stairwell and walked over to the viewing windows. Scanning the tags on the bassinets, he finally located the one marked "Baby Boy Nelson". A nurse came to the window and he pointed at the blue wrapped bundle and the nurse brought the sleeping baby to the window.  
  
"Its all a bit overwhelming, isn't it?"  
  
"What?" Andrei was startled by the other voice; looking to the right he saw a young man with the beginnings of a scruffy beard and wrinkled clothes.  
  
"One minute you're waiting and the next moment you're a father. I'm not sure if I'll every get used to it. Is that your son?" the stranger asked.  
  
"Um, yes, this is my son." Andrei turned again to look at the baby and watched as the nurse returned him to the bassinet.  
  
"What is his name?" Andrei looked confused.  
  
"Well, uh, we have not decided yet." Andrei looked around, trying to find a way to extract himself from this conversation. "I must go. Good luck with your child."  
  
"Her name is Madeline and thank you. Good luck to you too." The man was too content by watching his sleeping daughter to notice as Andrei made his way back to the stairs.  
  
*** 1981 (two weeks before)  
  
"This agent is not a threat to Russia, why has he been targeted?" Irina stood up and grabbed a half full glass of water off the table.  
  
"Irina, you should know that it is not your place to question who our superiors target."  
  
"But he is barely a man. He's only been a field agent for six months. What kind of damage could he have done in six months?"  
  
"I do not know why, only that you are to kill him."  
  
Irina paced around the room, silent, but it was evident that she was forming elaborate arguments and theories in her mind. Khasinau sat back in the chair and lit another cigarette. He knew that there was no need to argue with Irina now; she was doing all the work for him.  
  
Both swung around, startled by a knock at the door and became still and quiet. Khasinau motioned for her to step into the bathroom while he checked the peephole. Irina poised a gun in her outstretched hands. Khasinau leaned in towards the door, turning back to Irina and subtly shook his head. She lowered her gun slightly as Khasinau opened the door just a crack. Moments passed and he opened the door a bit more and stuck his head out, checking the hall in both directions.  
  
A hand from the outside pushed in and Cuvee swept into the room, staring down the barrel of Irina's gun and met her hard eyes.  
  
"Hello to you, too, darling," he cooed.  
  
Irina raised the gun an inch or two more, narrowing her eyes. Seconds ticked by and she finally lowered her weapon. She swept passed him into the main room and went to stand by the sliding glass door. She turned as if looking out the door, but only enough to keep from making eye contact with Cuvee. Tension filled the air as it were smoke. Khasinau was looking very warily at their superior, wondering why Cuvee had decided to come to this meeting in particular.  
  
Cuvee pulled a file from underneath his sweater and flopped it down on the bed. He pulled out several pictures and spread them out on the bedspread.  
  
"As you know, Irina, this is your mark, George Nelson," he pointed to a photograph of the young man walking out of the CIA office downtown.  
  
"Yes Gerard. I would like to know why he is a mark, though? How could this young man be a threat?" Irina looked at the photograph briefly and then looked away trying to look nonchalant, not wanting to make eye contact with Cuvee. The question alone would set his temper flaming and she didn't want to appear to challenge him.  
  
"Ah, yes, that age old question. I'm surprised you ask it any more my dear. You lost your innocence long ago in this business. Why do you care if he's a threat or not?"  
  
Khasinau tried to fade into the surroundings not wanting to be any part of the ensuing power struggle between these two. Irina refused to speak and just shrugged her shoulders.  
  
"In any case, this is Andrei Chenerev and Maureen Nelson. They are the boy's parents. Andrei was an operative in the United States during the late 50's and early 60's who unfortunately had a relationship that produced offspring. Mrs. Nelson died about a year ago leaving all of her personal affects to her only child George."  
  
"What happened to Andrei?" Khasinau asked, starting the other two who had seemingly forgot he was in the room.  
  
"Poor fool. He tried to get in contact with the Nelsons after he was recalled to the Motherland. For that he spent several years in Siberia and met an untimely death in 1972. We began to get concerned about the boy when we found he was joining the CIA. It was never discovered how much Andrei confided in his lover about his life and mission. Now that the lover is dead, we are afraid that she passed on any knowledge to her son."  
  
"Surely that information would be worthless now, it is over 20 years old."  
  
"Yet we still scour 500 year old documents from some madman named Rambaldi." Cuvee shrugged and sat in the chair next to the desk.  
  
"Before you kill the young George, you need to search the house, banking records, safety deposit boxes to find any stray information that might hint at Andrei and his ties to Russia."  
  
Irina looked out the sliding glass door and slowly nodded. He head was whipped around and she stood staring into Cuvee's hard eyes.  
  
"Nonetheless, my dear, you will kill him. Is that understood?" She returned the hard glare without moving an inch or acknowledging his statement. He looked deeply in her eyes and roughly pulled her chin so that his face was only inches from hers.  
  
"Yes, I think it would be very wise of you to follow all your orders. You never know if when you'll be recalled," he whispered.  
  
Cuvee picked up the photographs and file from the bed and swept out of the room without another word. Irina and Khasinau looked at each other, their facings saying everything their voices were not.  
  
***  
  
Irina watched as George Nelson drove away and once his car was out of sight, she slipped into his house via the sliding glass door. Surveillance from the past few days had revealed that he had no pets to contend with and that he left for work promptly at 7:15 am and didn't arrive home until after 7 pm. She would have plenty of time to methodically sift through his belongings.  
  
Her research had indicated that this was George's childhood home, which he now owned after his mother. George had a modest checking and savings account and had no safety deposit boxes registered in his or his mother's name in any of the local banks. The last thing she was required to do was to go through his belongings before she must carry out the ultimate mission.  
  
She started upstairs, in his bedroom, knowing that most important papers were probably stored there. She rifled through his files, the books on his shelves and the junk in the nightstand. Shoeboxes were emptied and the mattresses were overturned and still Irina found nothing. She found no papers indicating George's father. Even his birth certificate listed John Smith as the father. There were no pictures of George or Maureen with Andrei; she didn't find any security box keys amongst his things. She was certain that she had searched everywhere possible.  
  
With a sigh she resigned herself to the last portion of her task. Irina checked the time and found it to be nearly 5:30. She had promised that she would call home from her conference at dinnertime. Irina headed out the sliding door and to her waiting car, driving to the nearest gas station with a payphone.  
  
"Hello darling."  
  
"Yes, I'm having a good time at the conference. How was your day at school, Sydney?"  
  
"Really? We'll have to go buy Tammy a present to take to the party. Do you know what'd you like to get her?"  
  
"Is Daddy making dinner tonight?"  
  
"Oh, what is he making?"  
  
"I love you and miss you sweetie. Can you put Dad on the phone?"  
  
"Hi Jack. So its spaghetti tonight?"  
  
"When do you leave for your trip?"  
  
"Oh."  
  
"I'm having a good time. The lecturer on interpreting themes in medieval poetry was very interesting. I really enjoyed his discussion session afterwards."  
  
"The group is trying to decide where to go for dinner."  
  
"Yes darling, I miss you too."  
  
"I should be home tomorrow night around seven."  
  
"Jack."  
  
"I love you. I'll see you tomorrow." She hung up the phone and wiped the tear from her eye.  
  
Back at George's house, she waited silently in the closet, screwing the silencer onto her gun.  
  
Irina stiffened when she heard the front door open and someone walk into the house. Footsteps traced through the living room into the kitchen. She heard someone open the refrigerator. The TV came on, startling her and she steadier herself as the footsteps passed by her closet and up the stairs.  
  
Minutes later the foot steps came back down the stairs and she heard the couch moan as someone settle onto the couch. She breathed deeply and focused her mind on the task ahead. Slowly she opened the door of the closet and congratulates herself remembering to put some oil on the hinges so they wouldn't squeak. Her socked feet made no noise as she gingerly tiptoed to get a view of the person on the couch, confirming that it was her mark.  
  
She raised her gun and fired, the bullet making its target without hindrance. George's body slumped slightly and the TV sounds filling the room.  
  
Smells of gasoline wafted through the house, followed by the smell of smoke.  
  
No one saw the figure slip out of the sliding door.  
  
No one saw the car on the next block over drive away.  
  
No one saw the flames until the house was engulfed.  
  
The neighbors blamed themselves for not noticing in time, thinking that their lack of attention may have saved their neighbor's life. But no one could have saved his, not even his parents.  
  
And no one ever claimed the security box at the National City Bank under the name of Mary Ellen Ferguson, which happened to be Maureen Nelson's mother's name.  
  
***  
  
"She's back again, Charlie."  
  
"I see that. I wonder who she's here to see?" The guards at Langley began speculating about the woman in black.  
  
She had become a bit of a legend, as most people came once during the ceremony of remembrance and never returned. She was the only one who actually came back. No one could really remember when she first started to show up, but she always seemed to gain attention.  
  
She stood there for about 15 minutes and turned and walked out the door.  
  
At the bottom of the stairs, Irina felt a hand on her arm.  
  
"Do not be alarmed and just keep walking. Cuvee sent me." She glanced to her right to see the man next to her. She smiled as if she knew the man and continued to walk along with him.  
  
"My name is Calder and we have much in common."  
  
"Pleased to meet you. I am surprised at Gerard would have you get in touch with me."  
  
"Our missions have been similar."  
  
"Is that so?"  
  
"Yes. And I am under the impression that both of our assignments will soon be over."  
  
"I have not received information that would support that belief."  
  
"Ah." Calder stopped and looked at her. "Then I believe we should talk in more detail. I believe it is time for lunch. Are you hungry?"  
  
"I am in the mood for Chinese."  
  
"So be it."  
  
The two hailed a taxi and got in. 


	13. Matthias Cast Lots for My Inclusion

Matthais – Cast Lots for My Inclusion  
  
"Derry, you just can't accuse someone like that, especially an operative's family member." The section director leaned forward over his desk, ignoring the papers Derry Cranston had set there.  
  
"But Boss, Vaughn was looking into her background too before he was killed." Derry's arms waved erratically as if they would make a better point than he was at the moment. "If you look at the photograph recovered from the Boston mission and the picture in Bristow's office, you'd see the resemblance. Vaughn saw it. I can't believe he didn't share that with you."  
  
"I'm sorry, Derry. But without more substantial evidence, we just can't pursue this."  
  
"Then I'll get the evidence. I can do it, just let me have a try," Derry stated with more conviction than he had in years.  
  
The phone buzzed "Director?" Derry sat back in the leather chair, trying not to eavesdrop on the conversation.  
  
"Yes?" The Director looked mildly annoyed with the interruption.  
  
"FBI Director Marshall for you." The Director sat up slightly as his eyebrows crept up his forehead. His mouth opened slightly and he paused a moment before answering.  
  
"Thank you." His hand rested on the receiver of the phone and his other hand grabbed a pen.  
  
With a nod of the head, Derry knew he was dismissed, but in truth he had already left the room. His mind was busy searching for ways to prove to his boss that his theory was a sound one. He decided that a little surveillance might be the best way to start.  
  
After stopping home for a thermos full of coffee and some sandwiches, Derry spent the rest of the day and night watching the Bristow house. All outward appearances showed a happy and normal household. Derry concluded that if he didn't already know that Jack was an intelligence operative, his surveillance wouldn't have detected any clue. He caught himself dozing off a few times during the night and remembered the time when he was a new agent and how he looked forward to these all night stakeouts.  
  
Derry took photograph after mundane photograph of the house, the passersby, and the neighbor's houses hoping that the film would pick up some subtle clue that his eyes were missing. In the morning, he watched as Jack kissed his wife and daughter goodbye and left for work. Hyped up on caffeine, Derry dropped the film off for 1-hour developing at a local drug store on his way to headquarters, not wanting to place the film into the hands of the CIA until he had a chance to thoroughly review them.  
  
As soon as Derry walked onto his floor he realized that he should have stopped at home for a shower and a new pair of clothes. The looks he was receiving from his co-workers were almost as bad as when he showed up hung over or even a bit tipsy. He tried to smooth out the wrinkles in his suit coat with one hand and combed his other hand through his hair trying to tame it. He made his way to his desk to type up his observations from the night before.  
  
"Derry."  
  
Derry's head swung around to see the Director standing behind him, radiating annoyance.  
  
"Go home Derry. Take a nap and a shower and be back by 2:00. There will be a briefing at 2:00 sharp to discuss ideas on the Russian operative that has been thinning our ranks. Don't be late." Derry started to protest and the director just glowered.  
  
"Go home, that's an order."  
  
"Yes sir. I'll be back by 2:00."  
  
The Director walked off and Derry quickly gathered his briefcase and suit jacket. He practiced his argument for investigating Laura Bristow, realizing he had traveled most of the way home on autopilot. Distracted as he was thinking about his input into the afternoon's meeting, Derry never noticed the car following him.  
  
The dog sleeping on the couch lifted its head as the key turned in the lock and met his owner at the door. Derry reached down, dropping his briefcase and scratched the dog behind the ear.  
  
"Heya Buster. Did I interrupt your nap? Well, I got sent home to have one too. Let's go set an alarm." Buster followed Derry up the stairs and jumped on the bed watching while the alarm was set. The dog circled three times, plopping down on the right side and only lifted his head once when Derry lay down.  
  
The alarm started them both and Buster stayed in his warm spot as Derry stumbled to the bathroom and turned on the shower. A quick shower, a new suit and Derry was back to the office even before the 2 o'clock meeting. Derry gathered his surveillance notes and the photographs he picked up on his way back to the office and settled into the conference room.  
  
At a few minutes before 2 other agents filtered in, followed by Director Anselm and two gentlemen who Derry did not recognize. Everyone sat around the table and waited for the Director to begin the meeting.  
  
"Before we get started, I'd like to introduce Agents Calder and Shapiro from the LA Branch of the FBI. They will be joining us on this task force to discover and prosecute whoever has killed eleven of our agents. Gentlemen, we have a Russian mole in our midst and we will find them out."  
  
A secretary bustled in and placed manila folders in front of all of those present. Derry flipped his open to view pictures of the slain CIA agents. His hand trembled as he reached for the pitcher of water to fill his glass.  
  
The slide projector hummed like a thousand locusts and clicked, shattering the lull.  
  
Director Anselm began, "David Farrington was killed by a gunshot to the chest in the CIA parking deck and there were no significant clues found at the scene. Video surveillance was blocked for approximately 10 minutes on that section of deck 4." Another click.  
  
"Carl Hemphell was killed by bullet to the temple in a motel room in Richmond, VA. He had just returned from a long-term undercover mission in Russia. Evidence showed that he was with a woman when killed. Several hair samples were collected; however, upon analysis it was determined that the hair was from a wig."  
  
The fan on the slide projector came on abruptly disturbing the monologue.  
  
"Oscar Boudreaux and Philip Johnson were killed by a sniper during a mission outside of D.C. Eleanor Mercalli was killed on a boat along with her boyfriend Sergi Bakul, a Russian diplomat. Paul Browning was killed during a botched mission in Angola from a close range gunshot wound to the chest. Sal Garcia was killed during a mission in Granada, Spain. His throat was slit and woman's gloves were found at the scene. No fingerprints could be recovered from the gun or the knife."  
  
The slides clicked again and the FBI agent took over the exposition, "Section Chief Max Tidwell was strangled outside where his daughter took dance classes. There were no witnesses, but hairs found on his body suggested a woman other than his wife.  
  
Darwin Langston was killed in a shoot-out during a surveillance mission in Boston. Photographs recovered showed that the Russian agent under surveillance was a woman. William Vaughn was killed during a mission to meet this same agent in Albania. His body was burned in a warehouse explosion, but further forensic investigation showed that he had been wounded by gunshot."  
  
The Director took over again, "George Nelson was killed when his house exploded. It was also determined that he had been shot before the house caught fire."  
  
He clicked for the next slide and continued, "Finally, I am also adding Walter Bash. He died of a heart attack; however he had been under investigation for treason and therefore was included in the list because he may have had ties to the killer. We are going to be delving deeper into each of these deaths, reviewing all of the evidence, and scrutinizing their lives. We need to find out if there are one or more killers and we need to identify them and bring them to justice.  
  
People, I want to know why our agents are dying."  
  
Several agents asked questions about the evidence or scenes of the crimes. Most sat in silence, pinned under the weight and magnification of the faces that haunted the screen. There seemed to be no single piece of information that tied these agents together, other than their employer. Some were killed with a gun, one was strangled, and one was stabbed. Some deaths occurred during missions, some occurred during every day, mundane type of activities. Some evidence pointed toward a woman operative, but not all. Silence settled over the room like a fog.  
  
"Agent Cranston, I believe you have a theory to present to the group?"  
  
Derry gulped down the glass of water and stood to begin.  
  
***  
  
"And who else is the task force investigating, Igor?" Calder raised an eyebrow in surprise; it had been a very long time since anyone had called him by his Russian name. He had ceased to think of himself as Igor Valenko years ago. He prowled the table full of carryout Chinese, grabbing a plate and filling it until it bent with the weight of the food.  
  
"No one specifically. They are looking at possible female operatives, but Jack Bristow's name was brought up. His wife was also mentioned as a potential suspect," he explained between forkfuls of Lo Mein and Hunan chicken. "I was able to put him under suspicion by corresponding a few of his missions near where some of the killings occurred. I also used information gleaned from the Project Christmas information Irina's been gathering and explained that the Russians now had some of this information. Since Jack is one of the principle developers of this project this makes his loyalty come under question. Fortunately for you, an Agent Sloane backed up some of my theories."  
  
"Interesting. Sloane is one of my husband's friends and confidants; maybe he has another agenda? No matter. They are investigating Jack, and I am under suspicion too." Irina stirred her cup of tea absently. She glanced around the hotel suite, surprised that Alex spent the money for the luxurious room; it was very out of character. She already knew that she was a suspect if the surveillance the past couple of nights was any indication.  
  
"Yes, your name was brought up specifically as a suspect by Agent Cranston." Khasinau watched the contrast of the two agents before him; Igor showed no emotion and clearly his mind was elsewhere, whereas Irina's emotions flitted briefly across her face and she was clearly involved in the discussion. She was already figuring out scenarios down the road.  
  
"Agent Cranston?" Irina smiled. "And did anyone take him seriously?"  
  
"Not after I manipulated the information so that Jack looked guiltier than you by the moment." Calder smiled as he remembered. He chuckled at the vision of Cranston squirming when his theories were torn to shreds.  
  
Khasinau coughed and lit another cigarette. "Perhaps now it is time to think about sending you back to Russia."  
  
He studied the faces of his two companions trying to gauge their reactions. It appeared that neither of them was that surprised with his proclamation. Irina looked as though she was about to protest, as her nature.  
  
"We have yet to recover all of the data for Project Christmas, Alex. Are we to so easily give up? Surely a little misdirection and planted evidence can buy us some time." Irina stood up and began to pace.  
  
"Irina, be practical." She stopped, turned and glared at Khasinau. She heard Igor snicker and shot him a look full of poisonous darts.  
  
"Have you an idea concerning the extraction?" Calder's voice dropped in volume and became serious.  
  
Khasinau snubbed out his cigarette and looked and the two of them. "Cuvee and I are developing a plan. Right now we are going to extract both of you at the same time. We will contact you both in one week to go over the details." He paused and studied Irina and Igor.  
  
"I suggest that you, Irina and Igor, start saying your goodbyes to your families. You won't be with them much longer."  
  
***  
  
The stacks of paper on Derry's temporary desk rivaled Mt. McKinley in its massiveness. To the right was a stack of Jack Bristow's telephone records for 1975 and to his left were the credit card receipts for the same year. Derry finished highlighting the last statement in front of him from 1974 and watched it flutter to the stack on the floor. He took a sip from his coffee cup and had to resist spitting out the cold, congealing fluid.  
  
He wandered around a bit, trying to get the feeling back in his legs and to get more familiar with the new facility. A Joint Task Force between the CIA and the FBI had been formed to find the mole within the CIA and the person murdering agents and everyone involved had been moved to this new location a week ago. Since they were investigating their fellow agents, the Director felt that secrecy was of utmost import. The only thing Derry had come to like about the new facility was that it was 10 minutes closer to his condominium than the other office had been.  
  
He passed Parker's desk on the way to the kitchen and noticed that his desk was cluttered with papers too.  
  
"How's it going John?"  
  
"I'm up a shit creek with out a paddle, Derry. There is nothing in Paul Browning's case. Not a stitch of evidence that gives us any definitive information. Not that the Angolan officials were or are that cooperative. How's your investigation going?  
  
"Smoke and mirrors are all I'm finding. I guess that's what makes Bristow such a legendary agent. But his wife is just as illusive and enigmatic as he is. So far the only concrete evidence I have is that they have a child together. That much has been proved without much doubt."  
  
"Well, that is good to know," Parker chuckled.  
  
"Off for another java jolt. You need one?"  
  
"No, I'm good for now. Thanks."  
  
"Okay." Derry headed to the kitchen. After getting a new cup of coffee he headed back to the waiting piles.  
  
Another five hours later Derry walked out the door, yawning and stretching. At 10:00 at night there weren't many cars on the road, not that Derry noticed. He kept opening his eyes extra wide and turning up the radio to keep him awake. Twelve hours of staring at paper work, six days a week were wearing at Derry's concentration. He was glad that tomorrow was Sunday because he was planning on sleeping until noon and then spending quality time on the couch with Buster watching the ball game.  
  
Buster greeted Derry at the door, jumping and nosing at his hand. Derry filled the food and water bowls and went to change out of his suit, the rhythmic lapping at the water bowl followed him into the bedroom. Clad in jeans and a sweatshirt, he went back to the living room to put on his tennis shoes. Buster sat by the front door, his tail wagging as fast as a hummingbird's heartbeat. Soon the two guys were strolling the sleepy neighborhood; Derry took the time to unwind and Buster took the time to find a friendly piece of grass. Between the long workday, a late night stroll and a couple of beers, Derry slept solidly through the night and late the next morning oblivious to the surveillance he was under.  
  
Sunday proved relaxing especially with a Raiders win, but something was nagging Derry all day. Dinnertime saw him driving to St. Katherine's, the CIA hospital, to see Mike Solkowski. Mike had been in Albania with William Vaughn and had survived the explosion. At the information desk Derry flashed his badge and was given a visitor's badge to go to the fourth floor. Passing through a metal detector, the security guard checked his weapon and sent him to the main nurse's desk.  
  
"I'm here to see Michael Solkowski. How's he been doing?"  
  
"Can I see your credentials?" Derry handed over his badge and his driver's license to the Head Nurse for verification. She checked the approved visitor list and found his name on the third page. He took back his billfold and followed the nurse down the hall.  
  
"Mr. Solkowski's condition has not changed since he was admitted, nor is it likely to change. Many of his burns have healed to a degree, but many of the skin grafts have been less than successful."  
  
"Has there been no change at all as far as the coma is concerned?"  
  
"We routinely conduct stimuli testing and sporadically he will react to pain and light. However, they are only random reactions. Without any sort of trend in his responses we are not encouraged that there has been any improvement.  
  
"You sound like you've given up hope that he will ever get any better."  
  
"Agent Cranston, we will continue to give Mr. Solkowski the best care available, but I have to be honest, he will probably never get any better than he is today."  
  
"Has his wife been here today?"  
  
"Yes, she left about and hour ago."  
  
Derry held the door open for the nurse and followed her into the hospital room. She checked Mike's vitals and all the blipping machinery. She raised the head of the bed slightly and fluffed a pillow, replacing it behind Mike's head and then left the room. Derry stood and looked at the bandaged, scarred shell of a man lying motionless on the bed; the only sound in the room was the whooshing of the ventilator and occasional beep of the monitors. He stood there remembering the days at work, the parties, the missions with Mike and he felt horrible about standing there as a whole person.  
  
Eventually he sat in the chair next to the bed and began to talk.  
  
"Hey Mike. How are things going? Guess what? I got assigned to the task force. You know the one trying to ferret out the mole. Yeah, it's kind of exciting, and I really feel like I'm contributing more than I have in quite a long time." He paused, looking over the cocoon of gauze and wires and began to get choked up.  
  
"Damn. I'm really sorry that you're here, in this way, man. It's a f----- g horrible thing and I'm sorry for you and your family. I can't image what Trish and the kids are going through and I'll do whatever I can to help them out. I promise. Your kids will know what a great patriot you are and were, how you routinely put you life on the line for the United States. They'll know that you kissed their picture before every mission and made a promise to yourself that you'd return to them. Shit. Well you came home, but still you didn't, did you? God damn, this just isn't fair. You should not be like this, if there is any fairness in the world. You're one of the good guys, one of the ones who never gave up on me.  
  
Dammit, I wish you would just sit up and talk with me. I need your help Mike; you're the only one who could prove my theory. You're the only one who could prove what William thought, because you were there. You saw who was there or at least you heard who was there. The surveillance equipment was all completely destroyed in the explosion. We haven't been able to apprehend Mossad Arif or any of his associates. I wish you could just sit up and tell me that it was Laura Bristow in that warehouse in Albania. It was her, wasn't it? Did William confront her? Did she admit to being a Red? Did she kill William? Did she?" he pleaded.  
  
Derry paused and looked out the window, unknowingly wiping at a tear forming in the corner of his eye.  
  
"Sorry man, I didn't mean to get all emotional on you. I really should go; I've got to nail a Russian bitch. Look, get better soon. Get your ass up and help me, okay?"  
  
Derry sniffed and walked out the door and out of the hospital. Instead of going home he headed to the task force office eager to work more on the case against Laura Bristow. He was going to find the evidence to charge her with treason; he was going to do it for Mike, William and all of her other victims. He spent several hours working through more phone and credit card receipts. Additional background checks for Laura Bristow, nee Laura Anderson, were submitted, including birth certificate, grade school records, high school yearbooks and college transcripts. He had never felt so determined in his life. It was midnight when Derry returned home to a frantic dog. He immediately took Buster for a walk and filled his bowl before falling into a deep sleep.  
  
Calder spent the night watching Derry's condo. He walked around the building about 3 in the morning and was surprised that the dog sensed he was around and began barking. Calder knew that the dog would be a future problem and would suggest that any action against Derry should occur elsewhere, thus avoiding detection by the dog.  
  
***  
  
Irina didn't even bother to expose the orders inside "Les Miserable"; she knew that the next target was Derry Cranston. Both she and Igor had been conducting surveillance on him for weeks and Derry, in turn, had been looking into her background. She already had an idea on the mode of the hit for it should be fairly easy. Cranston, from all appearances, was a predictable sort with work, home and walking the dog. His trips on his days off were reserved for running errands to the grocery store, the post office and having maintenance performed on his car. Still, it was another life that she would be responsible for ending and she was getting quite tired of it all.  
  
She finished folding the laundry and carried an armful of clothes to Sydney's bedroom. Hanging up the little outfits, she smoothed out the imaginary wrinkles and put the socks and underwear away in their respective drawers. She knew that one day soon she would be relieved of these little mundane tasks, these little outward signs of motherhood. She wasn't quite ready for that day yet.  
  
The next day she wandered through the university library, searching for references for an upcoming class. Movement at the end of the stacks caught her eye and she followed in interest. The trenched figure wandered through the floor and down the stairs to the archives in the basement. Turning a corner she found herself in an old office full of microfiche where Khasinau and Calder were waiting.  
  
"I trust you received your orders?"  
  
"Of course, I knew that he would be next. It is only logical."  
  
"I will leave it to you to complete the task by this weekend. However, this is not the only reason I called you here. I wager that you, Igor, were wondering why you were called?  
  
"I anticipated that we would be receiving details of our extraction very soon." Irina sat in the chair, dreading what she was about to hear.  
  
"Yes. Well, it is quite rare that anyone would know the date of their death, but I am here to tell you that your deaths will occur on November 12, which is two weeks away."  
  
In her mind Irina screamed at the injustice of it being so soon and yet she also knew that this day should have taken place years ago.  
  
"You both are silent, though I think for different reasons. Laura Bristow and FBI Agent Steven Calder will die in an automobile accident at Canyon Creek Bridge and Irina and Igor will return to Mother Russia. The details of which are enclosed; standard encryption protocol." He handed both of them copies of "Don Quixote" and they began thumbing through the books as Alex continued.  
  
"Review the specifications and we will go through everything in detail in one week. I will contact you both with a meeting time and place."  
  
***  
  
Irina stood on the bridge looking down at her fate. Ever since Alex had told her of Laura's ending, she had been fixated with this spot. Between teaching classes, watching Derry Cranston and visiting this spot, she was tired. Tired of the lies and the duplicity and the waiting, every time she looked at Jack or Sydney she couldn't decide whether to hug them or to scream in protest. Jack had even noticed that she hadn't been sleeping well and asked several times if she was getting sick. Sydney, in her 6- year-old sense of sympathy, had drawn Laura happy pictures to cheer her up, which made her heart ache more deeply that she ever would have imagined.  
  
She let out a deep, heart-shredding sigh and got back into her car to head home. Sydney would be returning from school soon and she wanted to be there.  
  
***  
  
Everyone was whispering about him; they had never seen him this involved in his work before. They were impressed and a little annoyed that he was outshining the rest of the task force. Derry didn't notice and wouldn't have cared if he did; he was like a bloodhound hot on a scent. Laura Bristow was not all she appeared to be. Even at this point it was more of a feeling than a fact, but inconsistencies were creeping into his research and he latched onto them and followed every thread, no matter how seemingly insignificant.  
  
He was putting in extremely long hours at work and after having to deal with a few odorous protests by Buster, had hired the neighbor's teenage son to walk Buster every day when he got home from school. It was a good arrangement so far, the boy got spending money and Derry's house lost that stinging, bitter smell of dog urine.  
  
It was 11:30 and the parking deck was black and deserted except for Derry's car. Alone on the fourth level, the car sat in a relative blind spot of the security camera, for which Irina was thankful. She still took the time to manually adjust the camera angle so that the car was not visible at all. Through his involvement in the Task Force, Calder was able to get the schedule of the security guards and to monitor their rounds, determining the window of opportunity for the hit.  
  
Irina picked the lock of the 1978 Impala and climbed into the back seat, snuggling close to the floor. Her dark clothing blended in with the upholstery and the black knit cap covered her hair. She waited patiently until she heard the key in the lock; her body tensed up in preparation of her next move.  
  
She felt the car sink slightly with Derry's weight and the front seat eased backward slightly. She moved, adjusting her position as he adjusted to mask her presence and when the car started she rose to position herself right behind her target.  
  
With a flash of steel and strong arm around the neck, the air in the car smelled of warm metal. The knife found its mark and Derry's white cotton shirt absorbed the rivers of blood pouring down his body. Speckles of blood created an abstract design on the inside of the windshield. Irina held Derry's body as it slumped sideways in the front seat. Slipping out of the car, Irina faded into the shadows and silence.  
  
Inside the Joint Task Force headquarters, a lone figure sat at Derry's desk and collected the all of the evidence gathered against Laura Bristow. Arvin Sloane sifted through the paperwork and filled his briefcase with the most incriminating evidence against Laura. He spirited the information away into the night. 


	14. Martyrdom

Chapter 14 – Martyrdom  
  
Irina had felt the pull of this place ever since she was told that she would be leaving. Her time was so limited, yet this morning she found herself on an early morning flight from LA to Washington, then in a cab to here. The front entrance to Langley had always impressed her with its solidness and its comforting gray limestone. She stood on the steps one last time and took solace from it. Slowly, she walked up the low risers and into the lobby. Her body immediately turned right and she found herself staring at her muted reflection in the black granite wall.  
  
"She's here again," one guard said to the other.  
  
"What is this, the fourth or fifth time she's been here?"  
  
"Not sure. She must be a widow; they are the only ones that ever come back after the ceremony."  
  
"She could be someone's daughter."  
  
"No, I don't think so."  
  
Of course they would notice her; she was a beautiful woman. She showed up every now and again, here at Langley and stood at the wall. The wall of stars, the wall of heroes, the wall of lives cut too short. She would just stand there, never bringing any mementos or flowers as others had a tendency to do, just counting the stars. Her visits were sporadic, but they had come to rely on her visits.  
  
Irina stood there, dressed in a simple black dress with a red scarf as she had every visit before this. She stood there for about a half hour, listening to the cadence of each breath as she counted and recounted the shiny brass stars. This time there were twelve; twelve that she knew, twelve that were her responsibility. Twelve apostles. Twelve gleaming polished brass stars, each with a name scorched her mind.  
  
Unconsciously she recited the names: Browning, Mercalli, Farrington, Boudreaux, Johnson, Vaughn, Tidwell, Langston, Garcia, Hemphell, Nelson and Cranston. She also thought of the other two, Bash and Solkowski. She had not directly caused their deaths, but still they weighed on her. Each name brought a harsh memory and a mute request for absolution or at least understanding from one intelligence officer to another.  
  
And with one final nod of the head in salute and goodbye, she turned, walked out the glass door and down the foot-worn steps. Her stomach flopped as she got into a waiting taxi and drove away, taking all of her strength not to turn around and look at the building one more time.  
  
The plane ride back was quiet and reflective. When Irina got home in the dark of the night, she headed directly to Sydney's bedroom without taking off her coat. She lay down on the bed, curling up with her sleeping daughter and buried her face in Sydney's hair.  
  
***  
  
"There will only be one chance at this and there is a possibility that you may get hurt. The cars will collide here, just before the bridge." Khasinau pointed to the red mark on the map covering the chipped Formica table over which they hovered. Photographs of the bridge and the embankment surrounded the map, showing the area from various angles.  
  
"Irina's car will travel down this embankment and into the creek here. Igor's car will continue spinning and hit the guardrail approximately here." Khasinau flipped over the map to show the next in the sequence. "Igor, you will actually get out of the car, put the replacement behind the wheel and then trigger the explosion once you are free."  
  
"Will I have the remote with me during the accident?" Calder was puzzling the situation; thinking how to he would protect the detonator during the accident.  
  
"No, a remote detonator will be placed in the tree, here, so that you don't accidentally trigger the explosion before you can exit the car. There will be a body inside, which you will place behind the wheel. The body will be incinerated beyond recognition, and only though dental records will it be identified as Steven Calder." Calder studied the schematics carefully, nodding at the appropriate times.  
  
"Irina, you should be able to exit the car after it has submerged. We will have another vehicle stop to pick both of you up here. They will have first aid capabilities just in case either of you are injured in the accident. Laura's identification and purse will be found in the car and we will plant several pieces of your clothing along the canyon. It will appear that the body was swept down the creek. Laura's body will not be found.  
  
The accident should take place at approximately 11:30 pm on Saturday. We have been monitoring the road for several weeks and found that the traffic along this stretch is very light at this particular time. We will have people poised both north and south of the bridge to monitor and divert traffic, if necessary. Accident response time along this stretch will depend on the amount of traffic that comes upon the accident and calls to the police from the few residents that live along the road. We anticipate that you will have a window of no more than 15 minutes between the initial collision and when the first responders may arrive at the site. Our car is scheduled to arrive within 10 minutes of the accident.  
  
It is up to each of you to make sure that you get free from your respective cars and make it to the pickup point. I don't need to explain that if you are not at the pickup point at the designated time, you will be left behind.  
  
Is everything clear?"  
  
***  
  
Sloane sat in his home office leafing through the papers in front of him. He looked out the window to watch his wife, Emily, working in her garden. She looked up and caught his eye and waved at him. He smiled and raised his glass of wine to her.  
  
His gaze returned to the papers and a slow smile filled his face. He appreciated the work that Agent Cranston had accomplished, exposing serious questions about both Laura and Jack Bristow. Cranston had uncovered many little inconsistencies, when looked at individually would have never aroused suspicion. But put together, the inconsistencies became interesting.  
  
He fought the urge to call his friend and arrange a dinner with the Bristows. He wanted to look Laura in the eye, now that he was certain of her true nature, spy to spy. He also knew that Emily would love to spend time with Laura and Sydney.  
  
He walked out to the patio and leaned against the door watching his wife.  
  
"Darling, I was thinking of inviting the Bristows to dinner."  
  
"Arvin, that sounds wonderful." Emily dropped her pruning shears on the table and rewarded her husband with a hug. "Go call them now and I'll look to see what I can make for dinner."  
  
***  
  
Irina stood at the carousel's rail, watching the interaction between Jack and Sydney. Jack had his hand resting on the hindquarter of the white and gilt horse. Sydney's head was high and her laughter followed the motion of the ride; Irina would get snatches of it as they rode by. A picnic basket rested at Irina's feet, waiting for a trip to the beach; many of their favorite foods were stored within. Today was their day, Laura, Jack and Sydney.  
  
"Mommy, Mommy, can we ride again?" Sydney crashed into Irina's legs, entwining the two bodies into one large one. Jack strolled up and completed the mass of arms and legs and lifted them both off the ground until they squealed.  
  
"Not right now, pumpkin. It's almost time for lunch and I thought we were going to eat at the beach." Sydney looked upward beaming.  
  
"We can't go there, Mommy. I didn't bring my swimsuit." Jack leaned down and scooped up the little girl, her giggles following the body upward.  
  
"But Mom packed it for you."  
  
"She did? Thanks, Mommy."  
  
"So we're off to the beach?"  
  
"Yeah!" The family walked hand in hand to the parking lot and they were soon at the beach. Sydney changed into her bathing suit in the car and Jack scouted a good spot for the blanket. Soon lunch was laid out, apple slices and chicken salad sandwiches, pretzels and lemonade and was enjoyed thoroughly. Sydney waited the mandatory thirty minutes impatiently, only half involved in the game of Go Fish. As soon as she was allowed she was dashing in and out of the waves. Jack built a poor excuse of a sandcastle near the water's edge, only to have Sydney run through it. Irina sat on the blanket absorbing the entire scene, trying to imbed it into her memory.  
  
"Mom, is there any more lemonade?" punctured Irina's reverie.  
  
"Sure, honey." She handed over a cup and watched Jack wander up to the blanket. He sat down next to her and pulled Irina into his arms, his stubbly chin tickling her neck. His arms enveloped her as they watched their daughter draw pictures in the sand. Jack nibbled on her ear and her fingers played with the hair on his arms. Jack's growling stomach hinted at the passing time.  
  
"Hungry?" she asked.  
  
"I'm getting there. Sydney seems to be slowing down too." Irina's gaze followed his gesture to see Sydney sitting at the water's edge letting the tide surf in and around her.  
  
"Syd." Jack yelled and motioned for her to return to the blanket. She got up and trudge to the blanket.  
  
"Dad, I'm hungry," she pouted.  
  
"Ok. Let's go get some dinner. Where would you like to eat?"  
  
"McDonald's, please?" She bounced on her toes, pulling at Jack's arm.  
  
"I guess this is a special occasion, right? How many days in November are this beautiful and that Daddy has the day off? Let's go to McDonald's." Irina reasoned.  
  
***  
  
"Laura, Sydney and I would love to come to dinner sometime. I'm sorry we missed your call yesterday; we spent the day at the beach and then went out to dinner."  
  
"I hope you had an enjoyable day." Arvin paused a moment and looked at Jack intently. "Please check with your wife about a good time for dinner. Emily is looking forward to it."  
  
"I'll let you know." Arvin headed down the hall and to the director's office, files in hand. The Director's secretary motioned for him to sit while she picked up the phone. She motioned him to enter the Director's office and he closed the door behind him.  
  
Ten minutes later the secretary's telephone buzzed.  
  
"Yes, Director?"  
  
"Mrs. Vanneti, can you have FBI Director Marshall join us?  
  
"Yes sir." She disconnected the call and dialed another extension.  
  
"Sylvie? Could you have the Director come down here? Director Anselm would like to discuss something with him."  
  
"Sure. I'll let the Director know."  
  
When Director Marshall arrived, Mrs. Vanneti showed him into the inner office.  
  
"Does anyone need anything?" she asked through the half open door.  
  
"Not right now. Thank you, Mrs. Vanneti. Could you hold all my calls?"  
  
The door closed and the conversation resumed.  
  
"Alfred, the reason I asked you to come down was to talk about this information that Agent Sloane has brought to my attention. Arvin, why don't you give us the short version?"  
  
"Yes sir. As Director Anselm said, I have some interesting evidence that may give us a clue to our mole and murderer. I've been working on the Task Force with the late Agent Cranston and we uncovered some inconsistencies that may point to a suspect."  
  
"What kind of evidence?"  
  
"Phone records, credit card receipts or lack of them. It's all summarized here." Arvin passed both directors several pieces of paper. "Individually, none of these would spark any suspicion, but looking at them as a whole..."  
  
"And who do you think this evidence points toward?" Director Anselm asked.  
  
"Jack Bristow and his wife."  
  
***  
  
Irina hung up the phone and went into Sydney's bedroom and watched the sleeping child for several minutes. She leaned down and brushed a strand of hair away from Sydney's sleepy eyes and placed a long kiss on her forehead. Tucking Mr. Snuggles in under the covers, Irina's hand lingered on the cover a moment longer.  
  
"Remember, my sweet daughter, I have always loved you," she whispered and blew a kiss toward the bed.  
  
Irina went downstairs and stood silently in the door of Jack's office for a moment watching him work. She stepped into the office, alerting Jack of her presence. He pivoted the chair around so that he half faced her.  
  
"Who was on the phone, Laura?" Irina moved around the chair and sat on Jack's lap.  
  
"It was Lucy, her husband again. She needs a shoulder to cry on. Do you mind?"  
  
"No, darling. I'm just going to work a bit more." Irina rested her head on Jack's shoulder.  
  
"I just checked on Sydney and she's fast asleep. I don't know how long I'll be so don't wait up. And don't stay up all night working."  
  
"Yes, Laura," he moaned mockingly.  
  
Irina leaned in and placed a long hard kiss on Jack's lips, his arms pulled her in tighter.  
  
"You know I love you, don't you, Jack?"  
  
"I love you too, Laura. And if you kiss me like that again, I may have to show you." He leaned in for another kiss and she leaned backward, avoiding the kiss.  
  
"I have to go now." Irina stood and headed for the door.  
  
"See you in the morning." Jack muttered as he turned back to his desk.  
  
"Goodbye," she mouthed and headed to the garage.  
  
***  
  
TWO DIE IN ICY COLLISION Postal Worker and Housewife Collide on Wet Bridge  
  
By David Jacobs  
  
Two people died late Saturday in a high-speed crash on an icy bridge over Canyon Creek. Investigators believe that the car driven by postal worker Steven Calder hit a puddle, hydroplaning, and skidded into the northbound car driven by housewife Laura Bristow. The car containing Bristow (33) traveled down the embankment and was submerged in the icy waters of Canyon Creek. Rescue workers scoured the canyon for three days and her body has yet to be recovered. Calder's car remained on the bridge and burst into flames following the collision. Dental records confirmed that Calder was indeed the driver.  
  
Steven Calder (43) is survived by his wife, Maryanne, of 12 years. They had no children. He was a longtime employee of the Postal Service, spending the last 5 years in the Los Mercado branch.  
  
Laura Bristow leaves her husband of 10 years, Jonathan Bristow. They have one daughter Sydney, 6 years old. Mrs. Bristow was a part-time instructor of literature at UCLA.  
  
Irina stopped reading, not able to continue with the article and tried desperately to swallow the lump lodged in her throat. She folded the newspaper and slipped it into the pouch on the back of the seat in front of her. She absently rubbed the cast on her right arm and looked out the window. She studied the reflection of a blonde curly wig and bubblegum pink lipstick staring back at her, not recognizing Laura or Irina in its depths. She sighed and looked past it into the white expanse of cottony clouds and felt, rather than saw, the sun setting behind her. 


End file.
